


An Edge of Steele

by Jormandugr



Category: 50 Shades of Grey - E. L. James
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Stalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-11 12:53:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 82,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jormandugr/pseuds/Jormandugr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A complete rewrite of 50 Shades of Grey, assuming some kind of real-world logic and character development. When Ana Steele is drafted into doing an interview on her roommate's behalf, she is shocked to find that the reclusive CEO of Grey Enterprises is young, cute, and interested. A little too interested. Like, abduct-you-from-bars, turn-up-in-your-room interested. Like, get-between-you-and-the-door, rape-and-gaslighting interested. Just as well Ana has friends and family looking out for her best interests, and a mind of her own...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was produced as a result of too long snarking/liveblogging the book, and one too many conversations about how messed-up it is. I'm trying to be respectful to the source material. It's kind of hard, though.  
> Some parts of dialogue have been copy/pasted from the novel, on the grounds that there's no reason for Christian to say anything different. This will happen markedly less as the story goes on and diverges more from canon.  
> Title may change. Currently unbetaed. Concrit would be fantastic, particularly on Americanisation.

**1**

Kate’s sporty Mercedes is a much faster and smoother ride than my old VW Beetle, and I’m at Grey Enterprises’ headquarters in good time for the interview. It’s a quarter to two when I walk into the steel-and-glass office block, under the restrained steel sign over the door which says _Grey House_. The lobby of Grey House is enormous and modern, like the building itself, and I feel very exposed as my low-heeled boots click over the clean white sandstone floor.

The desk is manned – womanned, rather – by an attractive young blonde whose immaculate turnout makes my earlier trial in front of the mirror seem like a wasted effort. _I should have gone with the makeup after all_ , I think wryly. My hair is already coming out of its ponytail, and my knee-length skirt and blue sweater feel sloppy and mismatched when faced with her starched, sharp grey suit. I’m very aware of the whitehead on my forehead and how oversized and poppy my eyes look with my hair pulled back. I’m not up for this.

I find my tongue after a moment, feeling my cheeks heat slightly. “Um... I’m Anastasia Steele. I’m here to see Mr. Grey. He has an appointment with Katherine Kavanagh at two; I’m here instead of her...” Oh, god, my words are tripping over themselves. I feel horribly self-conscious, and very aware that I haven’t yet read the questions Kate gave me, or her notes on the guy I’m about to talk to.

The receptionist smiles pleasantly and raises an eyebrow. “Just a moment, Miss Steele,” she tells me, but it feels like a very long moment indeed, standing in front of the desk and feeling so out of place in this polished modernist’s  dream. Eventually, she looks up. “Miss Kavanagh is expected. You’ll have to sign in here.” She indicates the sign-in book on the desk, and, as I hesitate with my pen hovering over the paper, she goes on “Mr Grey’s office is on the twentieth floor. You’ll want the last elevator on the right.”

 _How many elevators do they need_? I think, but out loud I only thank her, taking the visitor tag she proffers and heading towards the bank of elevators she indicates. The security guards I pass are as immaculately-dressed as she is. I can’t imagine working in a place like this, so image-conscious and restrained. I can’t help wondering whether the offices are as regimented as this lobby. What kind of man must the CEO of a place like this be?

The lobby I step into on the twentieth floor is the mirror image of the one I first walked into; the same steel-and-glass decor, the same polished sandstone floor, the same unnecessary size. For a moment, I even think it’s the same woman at the desk, and for a panicked moment, I wonder how I can have accidentally ended up back on the ground floor. But when _this_ blonde receptionist rises to greet me, her suit is black, not grey, and her voice is different, deeper and less sure and with the hint of a Southern accent.

“Miss Steele?”

I nod, and she gives me a professional smile. “Mr Grey will see you soon. Could you wait here, please?” She indicates a row of white leather chairs, and turns back to her computer to, presumably, get back to work.

I am left alone in the seating area, and when I sit down, the little creak of the leather echoes around the vast lobby. Behind me, visible through the glass walls, is a spacious meeting room, and beyond that, a breathtaking view over Seattle. I have to tear my eyes away, reminding myself to focus on the papers Kate gave me. This is the only chance I’m going to have to read them before the interview; I have to take it. I am aware of my own nervousness, my heart thudding in my ears. I feel a little sick. I don’t belong here. This might be Kate’s element, but I’ve never been comfortable with one-on-one interviews. Give me a quiet library and a chair to curl up in over this glittering edifice any day. Give me a novel to read, not these questions and the brief, unhelpful notes she’s scribbled on them. I know she was trying to help, but her handwriting is shaky and scribbled, rushed off this morning under the influence of her fever, and she seems to think I know more about this guy than I actually do. It should have been Kate running this interview, not me. Damn her for catching the flu at such a bad time, and damn me for being enough of a pushover to step up to the mark.

I am squinting to decipher her tiny writing when I hear heels on the floor, and look up to see yet another immaculately turned-out blonde woman. God, is this whole office staffed by clones or something? Tucking the papers back into my satchel, I take a deep breath and stand up, trying to look like I know what I’m doing.

“Miss Steele?”

It takes me a moment to find my tongue. “Um... yes?” That isn’t helping the impression that I’m a competent professional, so I clear my throat and try again. “Yes. That’s me.”

She smiles, and I see that she’s older than either of the receptionists – maybe thirty or so. “Mr Grey will see you in five minutes,” she assures me. “May I take your coat?”

“Oh, yes, please.” I struggle out of my jacket, very aware of my lack of grace with her eyes on me, retrieve the recorder from my pocket and hand the jacket to her. It’s a relief to have it off. I hadn’t really noticed until now, too wrapped up in panic, but I really am too warm.

“Have you been offered any refreshment?” she asks, as she takes my jacket. I automatically tell her the truth – that no, I haven’t – and regret it a little when she shoots a clearly chastising look at the young woman behind the desk. Have I got the receptionist in trouble? The younger blonde certainly looks intimidated, and I try to quash the odd relief that at least I’m not the only one having a bad day.

The older woman turns back to me after a moment, her professional smile returning. “Would you like tea? Coffee? Water?”

“Um...” My eyes flicker to the receptionist, then back to the woman addressing me, and I think my smile must look more like a death rictus. “Just water, please.”

“Olivia, fetch Miss Steele a glass of water.” I feel for the poor receptionist, who scuttles off in a clatter of high heels and suddenly looks far less immaculate, and I realise I don’t much like this imperious older woman. She hasn’t finished yet, though, giving me an apologetic smile that looks completely false. “I’m so sorry, Miss Steele. Olivia is our newest intern. She’s still finding her feet. Please, sit down. Mr. Grey will be another five minutes.”

I do as I’m told, and return to deciphering Kate’s scrawl, sipping the iced water Olivia provides. Apparently Christian Grey – the CEO – is only twenty-seven. I wonder if I’ve read that right. These surroundings suggest someone much older to me, someone at least in their forties. I can’t imagine someone under thirty could have built this whole corporate empire, but apparently he did. That’s incredible. Almost too incredible. I wonder who the real power behind the throne is.

I’m still leafing through the questions, almost relaxed by this point, when the door to Grey’s office opens and my pulse rate leaps back up. The tall African-American man who leaves, calling something about golf back over his shoulder, is just as well turned-out as the employees, and I feel more self-conscious than ever in my knee-high boots and loose green skirt.

Olivia rushes to call the elevator for the cheerful-looking guy leaving, and I wonder how I could have ever thought she looked calm and professional. She looks as out of her depth as I am, which is oddly comforting.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” the man says over his shoulder, winking, as the other woman looks up at me.

“Mr Grey will see you now, Miss Steele,” she tells me, and smiles. I take a deep breath and steel myself, standing up and starting towards the door.

Maybe it’s my nervousness, or a touch of Kate’s flu, or maybe just that I have two left feet, but any chance I have of a good first impression is ruined when, opening Grey’s office door, I trip over  my own feet and stagger a couple of paces, pitching headfirst into the enormous office. One arm flails wildly, grabbing for purchase on the doorframe, but I still end up on my hands and knees, my face burning with embarrassment and my satchel of papers flung against the oversized desk. Behind me, in the lobby, I can hear someone stifling a giggle. I want to sink into the ground. _Kate had better be goddamn grateful_.

Mr Grey offers me a hand up. His fingers are long and cool, nails immaculately manicured. I daren’t look at any more of him than that for the moment, not when I feel like exploding with mortification. I can’t imagine he’s ever fallen like that, particularly not when I risk a sidelong glance and see the easy grace with which he steps back. He moves like a cat, liquid and careless.

“Miss Kavanagh.” He offers me a hand to shake as I retrieve my satchel and dust myself off, and I take it, flinching slightly but still managing to make myself meet his eyes. He looks even younger than Kate’s notes had led me to expect – I would have put him at twenty-five, tops. He’s fine-featured and high-cheekboned, with red-brown curls which look all the more unruly by comparison to his perfectly-coiffed employees. His nose is so perfectly straight and symmetrical that some part of my scattered mind is wondering whether it’s natural. Most striking, though, are his eyes. Most people’s eyes, you look at once and then forget. Mr Grey’s aren’t like that. It’s hard to put my finger on why that is – they’re not large, like mine, or particularly expressive. They are, however, an unusual shade of steel-grey, and currently shadowed with concern. “Are you all right? Would you like to sit down?”

I shake his hand, running on automatic, and it takes me a second to catch up with myself. “I, uh... actually, I’m not...” I clear my throat. Definitely the flu. Dammit, just what I need with finals coming on. But there’s no other explanation for my spaced-out reaction, even if I am embarrassed, and even if he is very, very handsome. “I mean, I’m not Kate. Katherine. Kavanagh, I mean.” Clearing my throat again as he lets go of my hand, I tuck my wayward hair behind my ears and straighten my back, trying desperately to regain my composure. “My name’s Anastasia Steele. I’m here in Miss Kavanagh’s place. She’s, er, she’s down with the flu at the moment, so she sent me. I hope that’s all right, Mr Grey.”

He looks polite, interested, but unsmiling. _Thank you, Mr Grey,_ I think fervently. _Thank you for pretending you’re not laughing at me right now_.

“Miss Steele,” he repeats. His voice is warm and soft, like fingers brushing over velvet. It sends shivers up my spine, particularly when I remember just how much of a fool I’ve already made of myself. “It’s quite all right. Why don’t you take a seat?”

I’m all too happy to. My legs feel like wet rope, and sinking down onto the white leather couch is easier than standing. I make a conscious effort not to slouch, checking that Kate’s recorder is still intact, mostly so I have something to focus on that isn’t Christian Grey. Setting it up is harder than I’d expected, mostly because my hands are shaky and slippery with anxiety; I drop the minidisc recorder twice on the coffee table, wincing each time, before I’m done. Taking a seat opposite me, Grey watches me thoughtfully. I can’t tell whether he’s hiding pity, amusement, or both.

“I, um.” I’m looking everywhere but at him, all around his huge and minimally-furnished office, as I scrabble Kate’s papers out of my bag. “I’m sorry. I’m kind of new at this. Um, do you mind if I record this?”

“After all the effort you put into setting up your recorder, you ask me now?” Yep. Amused. Definitely amused. I blush deeper than ever. I must look like a beetroot by now - a pop-eyed, spotty-foreheaded beetroot who can’t operate a minidisc recorder - and he looks like some kind of male model. Wonderful. This is just wonderful. When I glance up at him, he’s smiling. “No, Miss Steele, I don’t mind.”

Thank god for that. I push on, secure in the knowledge that at least I can’t make myself look any stupider, and press record. “I imagine you know this already, Mr Grey, but this is for the graduation issue of the WSU student newspaper. I have a few questions for you.”

“I thought you would,” he says, deadpan, and I’m almost glad I can’t blush any more than I already am. He’s mocking me, and I bridle at it, but I can’t exactly stop because of that. I square my shoulders, trying to pull together the scraps of my dignity.

“Well, first off...” I glance down at Kate’s list of questions, focusing on not stumbling as I read it. “You’re very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?” I think it sounds stilted and over-formal, but I would think that. I’m not the journalist, after all.

“Business is all about people, Miss Steele, and I’m very good at judging people. I know how they tick, what makes them flourish, what doesn’t, what inspires them, and how to incentivize them. I employ an exceptional team, and I reward them well.” He pauses, meeting my eyes. This sounds rehearsed to me. I wonder how many times he’s answered this kind of question before. “My belief is that to achieve success in any scheme, one has to make oneself master of that scheme, know it inside and out, know every detail. I work hard, very hard, to do that. I make decisions based on logic and facts. I have a natural gut instinct that can spot and nurture a good solid idea and good people. The bottom line is, it’s always down to good people.”

 _I’m sure it is_ , I think sardonically, thinking back to my first impression when I found out his age. His smugness isn’t making me think much more of his ability to run a multinational corporation without help. “Luck, too, I imagine,” I say sweetly, unable to resist.

“I don’t subscribe to luck or chance, Miss Steele. The harder I work the more luck I seem to have. It really is all about having the right people on your team and directing their energies accordingly. I think it was Harvey Firestone who said ‘the growth and development of people is the highest calling of leadership.’”

“I wouldn’t know, Mr Grey.” Holy shit, is this guy for real? Random quotes in the middle of off-the-cuff answers? Plus, this whole _I don’t believe in luck_ shtick stinks of self-righteous Republican. I scribble a note at the bottom of Kate’s question sheet. _Control freak._ Under that, _Smug_. And finally, reluctantly, _Self-confident. Got his answers all set out_.

“What are you writing, Miss Steele?” he asks mildly, rubbing his long finger against his lower lip, and leans over the table to try and see. I cover it automatically, the instinct of a grade-A student used to being cheated off, and try not to blush again when I realise I’m doing it.

“I just, I’m making a few notes. To go with the recording. That’s all.” I smile at him as reassuringly as I can, and try to move on, to distract him. “So, um, next question. Do you have any interests outside work?”

There’s a glint in his eye that attracts and repels me in equal measure. “I work very hard, Miss Steele. I don’t have much free time. But when I do, my interests are... varied. Very varied.”

 _Well, that’s an impressive non-answer_ , I think sardonically, but I manage to smile. Somehow, it’s easier not to be flustered when he’s being such an ass. “Could you give me an example, Mr Grey?”

His teeth, when he smirks, are dazzlingly white. “Oh, you know. Sailing. Gliding. I am a very wealthy man, and I enjoy expensive pursuits.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that you might be a little lacking in modesty?” That isn’t on Kate’s list, of course, but he’s so arrogant and so aggravating that I can’t resist.

His eyes darken, his dark eyebrows drawing together. “Miss Steele, I employ forty thousand people. I am one of the richest men in this country. I own my own company, which is constantly rising on the stock index. I think I’ve earned the right to a little vanity.”

I roll my eyes. I can’t help it. I hope he doesn’t see, although from the brief irritation that passes across his face, I think he probably does. “If you say so, Mr Grey.” Back to Kate’s questions, then. They’re solid ground, and there’s something a little unnerving about that angry look. Unnerving, and maybe a little too attractive. I swallow, and hurry on. “You invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?”

“I like to build things. I like to know how things work: what makes things tick, how to construct and deconstruct. And I have a love of ships. What can I say?”

I wouldn’t have thought ships had much to do with manufacturing, but then, Kate didn’t specify what he manufactured. Damn Kate. If she’d given me a crash course in Greyology before I set out this morning, I might not be such a nervous mess now. I shrug it off, shaking my head. “And agriculture? You invest in agriculture, as well. Why?”

He spouts off something about people starving, and how agriculture will help that, and how it’s only good business. I can’t help thinking that it’s less good business than a PR stunt, but then, I’m not the CEO, so what do I know? Better, I think, to move on to the next question: “Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?”

“I don’t have a philosophy as such. Maybe a guiding principle – Carnegie’s: ‘A man who acquires the ability to take full possession of his own mind may take possession of anything else to which he is justly entitled.’ I’m very singular, driven. I like control – of myself and those around me.”

I nod, trying to keep a straight face, and underline _Control freak_ three times. After a moment’s thought, I also add an exclamation mark. “So, as far as you’re concerned, the important thing is possession.”

Grey chuckles, a low, deep sound in his throat, which sends an unexpected tingling to the pit of my stomach. It feels warm in here, warmer than the lobby. “You could say that, yes.”

I resist the urge to loosen my collar, cartoon-style, and gulp. I am singularly uncomfortable with this whole situation, especially since I don’t understand what he makes me feel. I’m angry at him, and disgusted by him, but at the same time, I want to run my fingers through his messy hair... I want him to use that voice again, to chuckle like that again.

 _Ana, get a grip!_ Mentally shaking myself, I focus on the questions. “Um. Right. You were adopted. How far do you think that’s shaped the way you are?” Well. That’s... personal, and not much of a help with my discomfort. I wish Kate hadn’t littered these kinds of questions throughout. She might have the confidence to deliver them, but I don’t.

Thankfully, he doesn’t seem offended. “I’ve got no way of knowing.”

“Have you had to sacrifice a family life for your work?” That one’s off-script, largely because I can’t imagine his answer to the last question is going to be much help to Kate. I watch him with my pencil poised over the paper, hoping I look a little more professional than I feel.

“I have a family. I have a brother and a sister and two loving parents. I’m not interested in extending my family beyond that.”

He’s dodging the question, and I know it. If I was Kate, I’d follow it up, but I don’t have it in me. Instead, I move on to the next question on the list, cringing slightly as I ask it.

“Are you gay?”

He gasps audibly, and although I’m embarrassed all over again, I can’t help being a bit smug at having finally elicited a reaction, even if it was with one of Kate’s questions rather than on my own initiative. “No,” he says, after a minute. “No, I’m not.” I don’t really want to examine the feeling of relief that question sends through me. Instead, I just smile sheepishly and pretend to make a note.

“Good. Well, er, I think that’s everything. Is there anything you’d like to add, Mr Grey?” At this point, I just want to pack up and get out. Kate is going to be buying me apology dinners for a long time after this. I’m already exhausted, and I still have to drive back to Vancouver.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I think there is.” His eyes are definitely brighter now, and he isn’t hiding his smirk at all. I have to focus to refrain from groaning out loud. “You’ve asked me plenty of questions. I think I’d like to know a little more about you.”

 _What?_ This is even worse than I was expecting. I check my watch, hoping I can extricate myself soon, but force a smile. “I really don’t think that’s...”

“I think it’s only fair,” he cuts across me, and I close my mouth with a snap, reddening. “Now, Miss Steele... are you a colleague of Miss Kavanagh’s, on the paper?”

Worse and worse. I sigh. Time to come clean. “She’s my roommate,” I say cagily. “That’s why she asked me.”

“And why not someone who works on the paper?”

“Short notice.” I refuse to look at him, embarrassed by how easily he's seen through me. Instead, I look at the art on the wall, simple photographic canvases of household objects. “She only realised this morning that she couldn’t do it, and everyone else was busy.”

“But not you,” he muses. He’s stroking his lip again. “You aren’t planning on journalism, then. What are your plans when you graduate?”

 _I’m supposed to be conducting this interview!_ I want to snap at him, but between my brain and my mouth, it somehow becomes “I’d like to get into publishing.” It’s a bit of a pipe dream at the moment – Kate and I are moving to Seattle, that’s the only solid plan I have – but it’s better than nothing.

Grey regards me for a long moment, and is opening his mouth to reply when the door opens, and the older blonde from outside pokes her head in. “Mr. Grey, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes.”

“We’re not finished here, Andrea. Please cancel my next meeting.”

“You don’t have to do that!” I burst out, horrified. He meets my eyes coolly.

“I don’t _have_ to do anything,” he agrees, and waves a hand at Andrea, who looks shocked. I take it this isn’t a normal occurrence, even here. “I would, however, like to. Andrea, if you would.”

She seems to pull herself together, closing her mouth and shaking her head briefly, as if to clear it. “Yes, Mr Grey,” she says meekly, and vanishes back into the lobby.

“Where were we, Miss Steele?” he asks, as if nothing had just happened. “Ah, yes. Your career prospects. If you decide against publishing, our internship program is excellent.”

Wait. He’s offering me a job? He’s cancelled a business appointment, probably an important one, to offer me a _job_? I shake my head, half in answer, but half in sheer disbelief. “I don’t think so, Mr Grey.” I stand up. I don’t care if it’s rude. I have to get out of here. Out of this mad place, with this mad man, and the mad feelings he stirs up in me. “I won’t keep you. You’re busy, and I have to drive back to Vancouver.” I belatedly stop the recorder, stuffing it and the papers carelessly into my satchel, and give him a very fake, very brief smile. “Thank you for the interview. It’s been a pleasure.” _What a liar you are, Ana_.

He holds out his hand to shake as I turn to leave. “The pleasure was all mine, Miss Steele.” He sounds polite and genuine, but given that when I said it it was a blatant lie, I find him hard to trust when he says it. Then again, there’s a faint smile playing across his lips that suggests that maybe it’s more than a platitude. "Drive carefully. It's a long way to Vancouver."

Moving catlike to the door, he holds it open for me. “Just ensuring you make it through the door,” he explains, and my temper flares up.

“How _kind_ , Mr Grey,” I all but hiss at him, glaring, and walk out into the foyer. My dramatic exit is somewhat ruined by the fact that, against all my expectations, he follows me out. Olivia and Andrea stare. My face feels hot, and I feel very small and very angry.

“Did you have a coat?” he asks me, all sweetness and light. I nod, but almost as soon as Olivia’s leapt up to retrieve my jacket, he plucks it out of her hands. It takes me a moment to realise what he’s playing at.

“I can put my own coat on, thank you,” I tell him coldly, as he holds it up for me, and turn around to take it off him. Where does he get off, thinking that that kind of thing is appropriate? He just smiles, though, handing me the coat with a miniscule shrug and pressing the button for the elevator. As we wait, I shrug my coat on, purposefully looking away from him, and when the elevator arrives, I step inside before the door is even fully open.

When I look back, he’s standing outside the elevator, leaning on the wall. At least he doesn’t seem intent on following me any further. I even manage a little smile.

“Until we meet again, Anastasia,” he says as the door begins to close, and the smile drops off my face, but I nod.

“Mr Grey,” I agree through the half-closed door, stressing the honorific. And then the door closes, and the elevator begins to move.

_Katherine Kavanagh, you will never stop owing me for this._


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

I stumble out of the building and turn my face up to catch the rain. Outside, free from the stuffy confines of Grey House, I can breathe again. Leaning against one of the steel pillars of the building, I take several deep gasps of the clammy Seattle air, closing my eyes and waiting for my heart to stop thudding. That was... holy shit, that was awful. Embarrassing, aggravating, and, worst of all, not completely unpleasant.

I’m not going to dwell on that, I decide, and take another deep breath as I head towards the car. There’s a long drive ahead of me, and while I’ve already called off my afternoon shift at the hardware store where I work, the sooner I get home the more time I’ll have to cram for my finals and finish that damn essay. Despite that, as I head down the I-5, I find myself dwelling on what’s behind me, not the work ahead. There was something compelling about Grey. Maybe it was his confidence, his ostentatious wealth, his ease with himself. Maybe it was just that he’s good-looking. I’ve never been the kind of girl who gets attracted to people, but there’s no denying that I did find him attractive – despite his arrogance, rudeness, smugness, and disregard for personal space. Maybe even because of them. The thought sends a shiver down my spine, and I realise I’m thinking some rather inappropriate things about that voice. I step on the gas, focus on the road, and turn the car stereo up loud enough to drown out my troubling thoughts.

* * *

 Inside our duplex apartment, which is better than anything I could afford without Kate’s input, I hang up my jacket and sling my satchel onto the sideboard as I come in. Kate is waiting for me in the living room, surrounded by books, and even through my irritation at her, I feel a wave of sympathy. She’s clearly been studying, even though I can’t imagine that, with the flu she has, anything is getting through to her. Next to her is a cup of the soup I made her earlier. She’s still wearing her comfiest pink pyjamas, the ones reserved for breakups and bouts of illness, and her hair is out of place for once, dragged back into a scraggy ponytail. It isn’t fair that she still looks like something out of a commercial, beautiful even with bloodshot eyes and feverish spots on her defined cheekbones, but she looks so happy to see me that I can almost forgive her.

“Ana!” She moves to stand up, clearly dizzy and unsteady on her feet. “I was expecting you back earlier! I was starting to worry. How did it go? Was it okay?”

I roll my eyes, unable to restrain myself, and dig the minidisc recorder out of my pocket. “You owe me, Kate. He was an _ass_.”

Kate’s  hands fly to her mouth. It’s kind of gratifying to see her apologetic look, I won’t lie. _Damn right, you should be sorry,_ I think grumpily. Despite my best efforts, I’m still unable to tear my thoughts away from the interview, and she deserves to share my pain. “Oh, Ana, I’m sorry. I can’t thank you enough. You’re a lifesaver, you really are.”

I crack, and a smile starts to tug at my lips. It’s too hard to stay angry at Kate, even after a hellish day like this. “I know,” I confide, pulling the hair elastic out of my ponytail and shaking my hair out. “Look, I’m going to the library to try and get that essay finished. Don’t push yourself too hard, all right? There’s some Nyquil in my bag, with the notes.” Before she can press me any further, I vanish into my room to pick up my sheaf of essay prep. I don’t want to have to deal with the Kavanagh Inquisition. Not right now.

The college library isn’t far. I work there until it closes, typing away at my essay draft with a copy of _Tess of the d’Urbervilles_ and my folder of notes open on the desk. Around me, there is the manic buzz of other students doing much the same, typing away at their final essays or frantically leafing through textbooks. Even in these circumstances, though, I find it hard to keep my mind on the job in hand; I keep drifting off, back to Seattle and Mr Control-Freak Grey. The tiredness of a long drive and a gruelling interview doesn’t help, and by the time I leave the library that evening, I still have my conclusion and bibliography to write. _I could have had it done by now_ , I think grumpily as I trudge home, _if it weren’t for Kate and her stupid cold_.

Kate’s stupid cold seems to have got a bit better by the time I get in. She’s still red-nosed and pale, but a combination of Nyquil and a story to get her teeth into seems to have been some kind of miracle cure; she’s up and at her laptop, typing up transcripts of my interview. She looks up briefly as I arrive, watching me flop down onto the couch before she returns to her furious typing. “You’ve got some good stuff here, Ana,” she remarks, eyes on the screen. “Well done. I don’t know why you were in such a hurry to leave, though. He obviously wanted to keep talking.”

“He was creeping me out,” I mumble into my chest, pulling a face, and pick up my half-read copy of _The Kellys and the O’Kellys_ , although the words seem to dance in front of my eyes.

“Really? I don’t see why.” Of course she wouldn’t. That’s because Kate’s self-confidence is limitless – how could she possibly understand those of us who cringe and blush at the slightest provocation? Thankfully, she doesn’t seem too inclined to push the subject, already moving on. “It’s a shame we don’t have any original photos for the article. He’s one good-looking son of a bitch, isn’t he?”

My chin sinks even deeper into my chest. I must look like a turtle trying to retreat into its shell at this point. A blushing turtle. “I guess so,” I say reluctantly, trying to sound disinterested, but I don’t think Kate’s buying it.

“Uh-huh. Come on, Ana, even you can’t be immune to those kinds of looks.” She smirks, waggling her eyebrows. I change the subject.

“I’m sorry I didn’t take more notes. You could’ve got more out of him.”

“I don’t know about that.” She does sound genuinely impressed, too. “I mean, he offered you a _job_ , Ana. That’s kind of a big deal. He obviously likes you. So, come on, spill. What did you really think of him? Besides, um, _control freak_?” She taps my scribbled notes, laughing.

I sigh, running my hand over my face. Do we really have to do this now? But she’s looking at me with the face I find hard to resist, and it seems stupid to walk away, so I try to think how best to phrase it. “Charismatic, I guess. Very driven, very smug, very controlling, but, yeah... charismatic. I guess I can see the attraction.”

“Ah- _hah_!” Her face splits into a ridiculous grin. “I knew it! Ana Steele, attracted to a guy. That’s a first.”

“Oh, shut up,” I grumble, and get up to head towards the kitchen.

“Don’t worry.” I can actually _hear_ the smirk. “I think he’s pretty taken with you, too. It can’t be that bad.”

“It was that bad,” I tell her sulkily over my shoulder, folding my arms. “I’m glad I don’t have to see him again until graduation. We’re done with talking about this, okay? I’m making dinner now. D’you want to eat?”

“You’re making a fuss, you know,” she says, turning back to her computer. “Calm down. He’s hot. You like him. It’s normal.”

I stick my tongue out at her. Childish? Maybe, but it makes me feel better. “I’m making dinner now,” I repeat, going into the kitchen to make as much noise as I can with the pans. “Conversation’s over. Drop it.”

To my relief and surprise, she does, although as I put some pasta on to boil, I can hear her laughing in the next room.

* * *

I finish my _Tess of the d’Urbervilles_ essay on Kate’s computer after she goes to bed that night, and go to bed after midnight, worn out but proud of how much I’ve achieved that day. Sleep isn’t long coming, but it’s shallower than I need, and troubled by dreams I forget on waking. That seems to set the precedent for the rest of the week, which I spend in a haze of study, work, and uneven sleep. I feel better about that for the fact that Kate seems to be in much the same state, only she’s working even harder, struggling to edit her final edition of the school paper before passing it on to the new editor at the same time as she crams for her exams.

On Wednesday, I make a call to my mom in Georgia, partly to check up on her but also so she can reassure me about my upcoming exams. We talk for a long time about her new venture into candle-making, the weather in Georgia, and how her new husband Bob is getting on. It’s a welcome distraction from exams, and from the thoughts of Christian Grey which somehow don’t want to go away. It’s good to hear from her, even if she spends a while on her usual rant about my singleness, and I feel better for calling her. She does wish me luck for my exams, too, as does my stepdad, Ray, when I call him later that afternoon. It helps allay my stress and loneliness a bit, and I take an hour that evening to finish _The Kellys and the O’Kellys_ , studying be damned. I’ve earned a break, after all.

Friday brings another break, when my friend Jose drops by with a bottle of champagne and a wide grin to announce that he’s snagged himself a photography exhibition at the Portland Place Gallery. He’s an engineering major, but I know photography is his passion, and I’m ecstatic for him. We drink and laugh, and for the moment, it’s like all our end-of-year stress has gone out of the window. It’s the most relaxed I’ve felt since that stupid mess of an interview, and that night, for the first time in almost a week, I don’t dream. Then again, maybe that’s because of the champagne. I never could hold my drink.

Luckily, I don’t have a hangover on Saturday morning, which is a relief, since my shift at Clayton’s hardware store is a whirlwind of activity. It’s summer, so we have the usual crowds of people wanting to take advantage of the weather to do yardwork and DIY, to spruce up their homes and to fix things up while the vacation’s here. There isn’t a lull until lunchtime, and so when I see someone at the counter out of the corner of my eye while I’m trying to eat my bagel and check orders, I have to stifle a groan. “Hi, can I help y...?”

It’s Christian Grey. Holy shit, it’s Christian Grey. What is Mr Finer-Things-In-Life, Expensive-Rich-Snob Grey doing in some backwater hardware store in Portland? My jaw is slack, and my pulse rate’s leapt up. I want to tell myself it’s just surprise, but I know it’s not. He looks completely different outside the office, in a casual knit sweater and jeans, but his striking grey eyes are the same, fixed on me with a hidden kind of amusement. “Miss Steele. What a pleasant surprise.”

_I’m not going to make a fool of myself again. This is my home ground, not his, not Kate’s. I’m not going to make a fool of myself again_. “Mr Grey,” I croak, struggling to put on my best professional face, and clear my throat. “What can I do for you?”

He smiles. It isn’t fair for him to smile like that. When he’s impassive, he looks like a male model, but when he smiles, he’s radiant. Words don’t do him justice. There’s an enigmatic quality to his smile that makes the Mona Lisa look positively open. “Oh, I just need to stock up on a few things. To start with, cable ties.”

“We stock lots of different lengths. Aisle eight, electrical supplies,” I rattle off, and indicate the relevant aisle, relieved to have passed the test. I can keep my head. I can do this. I refuse to let him get under my skin.

Then he smiles at me, and says “Wonderful. Would you mind showing me, Miss Steele?” and my legs go weak, and that whole not-letting-him-under-my-skin plan goes out the window. It’s a struggle to get to my feet, let alone stay stable and look nonchalant as I head out in front of the counter.

“Sure,” I agree, my voice going a little squeaky. “This way, Mr Grey.” As I lead him towards the electrical supplies, I can’t help wondering what the hell he’s doing in Portland. Is he here on business? If so, why at _Clayton’s_ of all places? I can’t quite squash the momentary hope that maybe, just maybe, he’s here to see me. That would be ridiculous, though. Aside from anything else, how would he even know where I work? And why would he have any interest in some college girl who made a complete fool of herself interviewing him a week ago?

We’ve reached the cable ties. He bends to select a packet, and I have to look away. _I will not stare at his butt._ It’s hard to resist, though, and I do sneak a glimpse at his denim-clad ass for a moment. No harm in that, right?

“These will do,” he says, straightening up, and I look away quickly with a blush. There’s something to his smile that makes me think I’m missing a trick, like he’s laughing at some private joke.

“Um, anything else?” I try very hard not to squeak, but my voice still comes out higher than I’d like.

Grey smiles. “I’d like some duct tape.”

“What are you fixing?” I ask curiously, as I beckon him on. I can’t imagine Mr Grey fixing anything. He seems like the type to throw things out if they’re broken, not fix them, and certainly not in person.

His smile is definitely sardonic. He’s laughing at me, and I don’t know why. “Oh, I’m not fixing anything, Miss Steele.”

_Way to be enigmatic, Mr Grey_ , I think grumpily, glancing over my shoulder at him as I lean down to pick up the two different widths of duct tape we stock. It’s bad enough having him here, without him laughing at me like this. I feel out of my depth, awkward and misplaced, although I’ve been working here for years. He selects the wider tape, and as I lean down to replace the other roll, I feel his eyes on me – I’m annoyed to find that the thought of him checking me out is sexy, not disturbing. _Oh, now that’s just not fair_.

“Is that everything?” I croak, straightening up and nervously smoothing my jeans.

His eyes are dark; his look sends a jolt to the pit of my belly. He no longer looks amused, but I can’t quite put my finger on what’s replaced it. All I know is, it’s impossible to look away. His voice is husky and low. “Some rope, I think, Miss Steele.”

“This way.” The spell momentarily broken, I flee, leading him into the aisle where we keep the rope. “Um, we have lots of kinds... there’s synthetic and natural filament rope, cable, cord...”

He selects five yards of natural filament rope, and I measure and cut it, moving on automatic as I coil it, tie it, and hand it to him. Thank God, I manage to concentrate enough not to cut my finger off in the process, and tuck the Stanley knife into my pocket with a disproportionate sense of pride.

“Were you a Girl Scout?” he asks me, his full lips curling into a smile.

I shake my head. “Group activities... never really my thing.”

“Oh? What is your thing, Anastasia?”

Once again, attraction and irritation are warring in me. Irritation wins, albeit by a narrow margin. “Didn’t you cross-examine me enough on Monday?” I snap, and blush as soon as it’s out. “I’m sorry. That was rude. But... look, would you like anything else while you’re here?”

He looks amused, not offended. That’s a relief. “I don’t know. What else would you recommend?”

What would I recommend? What kind of stupid question is that? I don’t know what he’s doing, and I can’t even think what he _might_ be doing with cable ties, duct tape, and filament rope. Out loud, I just say, “Um, that depends. What for?”

He ignores my question, smirking and starting back towards the counter. I hurry to keep pace. “So,” he asks, as I start to ring up his purchases, “how’s the article coming along?”

“I don’t know.” I’m too off-balance to formulate a decent answer, so I fall back on the truth. “I’m not writing it. My roommate is... Katherine Kavanagh, you remember, she was the one who made the appointment? She’s very happy with it, although she did mention she wished she had some original photos of you to go alongside it...”

“Well, I’m around. Tomorrow, perhaps...” His eyes light up, and I mentally rewind what I just said, stifling a groan as I realise I’ve done it again. The last thing I want is to give him another excuse to be around me. He’s distracting, and off-putting, and far too attractive. On the other hand, if I can pull this off, Kate will be over the moon.

“Kate  will be delighted, if we can find a photographer,” I agree, after a moment. I expect a smile, but he actually looks almost disappointed. Great. What have I done now?

“Let me know about tomorrow,” he says eventually, smiling again as he passes me his business card along with the payment for his DIY supplies. “My cell number’s on that. You’ll have to call before ten in the morning.”

I smile back at him and thank him, relaxing a little. I have Christian Grey’s number, and I haven’t made such a fool of myself this time. And just because his being here is probably a coincidence, that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the eye candy, or the opportunity it presents for the newspaper. I bag up his purchases and hand them to him, our fingers brushing slightly as he takes the bag from me.

“Until tomorrow, then, perhaps.” He’s already leaving when he turns back over his shoulder. “Oh – and Anastasia, I’m glad Miss Kavanagh couldn’t do the interview.” And then he’s gone, leaving me to sag against the counter and wonder what the hell is happening to the world.


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

I call Kate from the stockroom to tell her the good news. She reacts, predictably, with great enthusiasm, telling me she’ll call Levi – the paper’s photographer – right away and congratulating me wildly for bagging another coup. She’s as surprised as I am that Grey would turn up in Clayton’s, though. “You don’t think he came to see you, do you?”

 _Don’t you start, Kate_. “Of course not. He was here on business.” Well, that’s my best guess. It makes more sense than the idea that he’d come all the way to Portland to see me, particularly when I didn’t tell him where I work. “Do you want the photos, or not?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ana, of _course_ I want them! The question is, when and where?”

“Well... you can call Levi and work it out, and we can get in touch with Mr Grey when it’s sorted. He gave me his cell number, and he said if we call before ten...”

The noise Kate makes could probably make bats drop out of the sky. “He gave you his _number_? The richest, most elusive, most enigmatic bachelor in Washington State, just gave you his _cell phone number_? Ana, do you know what that _means_?”

“Um... that he wants to organise a photoshoot?” The excitement in her voice makes my heart leap, but I quash my own excitement mercilessly.

“It means he _likes_ you, Ana, you dumbass.” I can practically see Kate hugging herself. She’s always been trying to get me hooked up with someone, and now she’s apparently seeing a clear shot with a multimillionaire bachelor. Funny how she can be more excited about this than me. All I feel is a sinking dread, because I know that isn’t true. Why would he like me? All I’ve done in front of Grey is embarrass myself.

I clear my throat, glancing back at the door of the stockroom. “I should be working, Kate. Listen, call Levi, see when he can make it, and when I get home, you can call Mr Grey and arrange a time and place.”

“I think you should call him, Anastasia. You’re the one with the relationship.”

I splutter. “Relationship? What relationship?”

She sighs, her voice taking on that brook-no-arguments tone. “At least you’ve met the guy, and he clearly likes you. Just call him, okay?” she orders, and hangs up.

 _Bossy, bossy_. I sigh, turning to head back into the shop before I’m missed. I know I’ll end up making the call in the end. Once Kate Kavanagh decides I’m going to do something, it’s hard to back out of. She’ll be on at me until I do. I love her dearly, and she’s my closest friend, but sometimes her take-no-prisoners attitude can be a real pain in the ass.

Sure enough, she’s pushing the phone at me almost as soon as I step into our apartment. “Levi says he’s free all day tomorrow, and if anything comes up, he’ll call it off,” she says briskly, without even asking how my day went. Kate’s a sweetheart usually, but this always happens when she gets her teeth into a story – everything else falls by the wayside, and she’s like a pit-bull going after what she wants. “Ana, you need to call Grey, tell him we’d like to set up a shoot tomorrow, and ask him where and when suits him best. Okay?”

“Haven’t I done enough for this stupid story?” I grumble, but my heart’s not in it, despite the twist my stomach does when she hands me the phone. Secretly, I kind of want to call him, to hear his voice again. It’s just that I’m nervous, and a little irritated that I’m doing all the legwork again. And she’s not even sick this time!

“Please, Ana?” Oh, no. Here come the puppy-dog eyes. Big green eyes, with long lashes, from someone I care deeply about... damn. I’m sunk. I take a steadying breath and punch in Christian’s number, as Kate touches my arm gratefully.

He answers on the second ring, his voice cool and impersonal. _Definitely his work mobile, then,_ I think, and find myself wondering if he has a personal number, and if so, who calls it. Kate has to nudge me to get me back from my little space-out.

“Er, Mr Grey? It’s Anastasia Steele.”

His voice changes immediately, to something warm and husky and oddly intimate. I find myself blushing, and duck into the kitchen to avoid Kate’s eyes. “Miss Steele. How nice to hear from you.”

I gape for a moment, trying to remember why I called. Right. Yes. Stupid Grey and his distracting voice. “Um, we’d like to go ahead with the photoshoot, if that’s okay with you. Tomorrow, if that’s all right.” I’m having trouble breathing, I’m so nervous and thrown. “When would be good for you?” From the doorway, Kate mouths at me, and I hastily add, “and, um, where?”

There’s a smirk in his voice, discernable even with how little I know him. He’s laughing at me. Again. _One day, Grey. One day I’ll talk to you without making an ass of myself_. “I’m staying at the Heathman in Portland. Shall we say nine-thirty tomorrow morning?”

“Nine-thirty at the Heathman,” I repeat, partly for Kate’s benefit and mostly so I don’t have to think of anything else to say for a couple of seconds. Kate gives me a thumbs-up and an encouraging grin, and I relax slightly. At least someone thinks I’m doing an okay job. “We’ll be there. Thank you, Mr Grey. We’ll see you there.”

“I look forward to it, Miss Steele.” Smug, mocking, and _oh so promising_. My breath catches in my throat, and I hang up before anything worse can happen. Kate is looking at me, her face a picture of shock.

“What?”

“You really do have it bad, don’t you?” She bites her lip, frowning at me. “You’re blushing, Ana.”

“Don’t start,” I warn her, going to put the phone down. “I blush all the time. You know that. I just... he’s intimidating, that’s all.”

“Yeah, but I’ve never seen you so...” A vague, undefined motion of her hands. “So _affected_ by anyone. Look, I think it’s great, just...”

“Just what?”

“Oh, nothing.” The moment passes. She waves it off. “Give me the phone. I’ll call the manager of the Heathman, arrange a space for the shoot. Don’t give me that face, Ana. I’ll make all this up to you, I promise.”

I find it hard to imagine how she can, but I take her word for it, and take out my frustration in the kitchen instead, chopping vegetables with unnecessary violence as I pull together our supper. Supper, then study, and then I can sleep and put all thoughts of Christian Grey out of my head for a while.

* * *

 

In the end, my sleep is disturbed by dreams about Grey. Apparently I can’t get away from him even when I’m unconscious. As a result, when Levi and his lighting guy Tad meet Kate and me at the Heathman, I’m far from at my best. I’ve scraped my hair back into a plait and dressed in my best jeans and a low-cut top, but I’m still eclipsed by Kate, which is frustrating. Then again, I could spend years preparing and still be eclipsed by Kate. That’s what I get for being friends with someone who looks like a supermodel with the confidence to match. She sweeps into the expensive hotel as if she owns the place, and somehow gets the free room she negotiated upgraded to a whole suite. Levi, Tad and I trail after her like we’re her entourage, exchanging glances as we drag lighting equipment around the huge building.

The suite is vast and opulent, although it’s apparently one of the smaller ones in the hotel. _Grey likes to travel in style,_ I think, sardonically but without surprise. The station clock on the wall reads 9:00, so we have half an hour to set up, but the way Kate bustles around, you’d think we only had a couple of minutes. “Levi, we’ll shoot against that wall, don’t you agree? Clear the chairs. Tad, get the lights set up, I’ll help. Ana, could you ask housekeeping to bring up some refreshments? And let Grey know where we are.”

“Yes, Mistress,” I mutter, but I do as I’m told. When I come back, the suite looks totally different. Tad is fiddling with the lights, while Kate fusses around and rearranges furniture. Levi greets me with a smile as I come in. I only vaguely know him, through Kate and through Jose, but we get on pretty well – like me, Levi likes classic literature, although he’s more into Poe and Lovecraft than Austen and Hardy. He’s a handsome guy, I guess, tall and dark-skinned with nice brown eyes, but neither of us has ever shown interest in the other, which makes him much more relaxing to be around than Jose. Neither of us is relaxed now, though, especially not when, a few minutes later, Christian Grey walks in.

 _Holy crap_. He looks like the epitome of wealth and casual power, laid-back and relaxed in a white linen shirt open at the neck, his hair still damp from the shower, a small smile on his face. I wet my lips. Looking at him is like looking into the sun; I’m completely dazzled. With him is a much more nondescript-looking companion, a tall, muscular man with a buzzcut who wordlessly takes up a place in the corner. I barely look at him. My eyes are fixed on Grey.

“Miss Steele.” He extends a hand to me, and I shake it, trying to keep my composure. “We meet again.”

“Mr Grey. This is, uh, this is my friend, Katherine Kavanagh.”

Kate comes forwards, extending her hand and giving him a dazzling smile, confident and professional in a way I could never be. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr Grey.”

“The tenacious Miss Kavanagh. How do you do?” Grey shakes her hand, meeting her eyes for a moment, and I feel a stab of something not unlike jealousy. “Anastasia told me you were unwell last week. I trust you’re feeling better?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” She’s unruffled, utterly unintimidated, the fruit of years of private education and the knowledge of her own place in the world. I am in awe of her. That kind of confidence has always been out of my reach. “Thank you so much for taking the time to do this. This is Levi Smith, our photographer.”

“Pleasure,” Levi says with a smile, brushing against my shoulder as he steps up  to shake Grey’s hand. He’s met with a steely glare, a hostility I don’t at all understand, but Grey shakes his hand in return and smiles like a predator.

“Where would you like me?”

The shoot takes about half an hour, while Levi and Katherine arrange and rearrange things, and Tad shifts lights for a better effect, and Christian stands, sits, poses. I’m quite happy for it to last as long as possible; my role is over, and I’m enjoying being able to stand back with a glass of juice and take in the eye-candy that is Christian Grey mid-photoshoot. It’s over all too soon, and Kate and Levi shake Grey’s hand.

“Thank you again, Mr Grey,” Kate says with a smile, shaking his hand.

“I look forwards to reading the article, Miss Kavanagh,” Grey says, his smile matching hers, and then – to my complete surprise – he turns to me. “Will you walk with me, Miss Steele?”

 _What?_ I glance at Kate, but she just shrugs. “Um... sure,” I say, lamely, and follow Grey and the buzz-cut guy out of the room, utterly baffled. What does he want? Why am I walking with him? What the hell is going on?

“I’ll call you, Taylor,” he murmurs, and his escort nods and heads away down the corridor, leaving me alone with Grey. The hairs on my arms stand on end as Grey’s full attention turns on me. Remembering the hostile look he gave Levi, I wonder what I’ve done wrong, whether I should have brought someone else instead, whether...

“I wondered if you would join me for coffee this morning.”

I don’t know what I was expecting, but that sure as hell wasn’t it. For a moment, I can only blink. Christian Grey is asking me out for coffee. No, a date. Christian Grey is asking me out on a date. I feel like pinching myself to be sure I’m not dreaming.

“I, uh... Kate and I are sharing a car,” I say, apologetically.

“Oh, that’s no problem. I can have Taylor drive you home.” Grey – Christian? – smiles at me as though this is completely normal. “You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

“Well, um, I...” I am floundering, lost and completely out of my depth. What are you even meant to say to that? “I mean, I don’t want to inconvenience you, or Taylor...”

“Nonsense.” His tone brooks no argument, and I sag. After all, isn’t this exactly what I want.

“Okay,” I murmur, chastened. “Let me just go and tell Kate...”

His broad, unguarded smile could power an entire city. He opens the door to let me back into the suite, where Levi and Kate are talking while Tad packs up his equipment.

“Ana, he definitely likes you,” Kate says, without preamble, as I approach. Five minutes ago, I would have laughed in her face. Now, I think she might be right. “But I don’t trust him,” she adds. Levi shrugs, extricating himself from the conversation and going to help Tad pack up.

“Kate,” I say, when he’s gone. “Kate, he asked me to go for coffee with him.”

She gapes. Speechless Kate – that’s a rarity! It doesn’t last long, though, before she grabs my arm and steers me into the bedroom of the suite, frowning at me. Her voice is low and intense. “Listen, Ana, he’s gorgeous, I get that, but he’s trouble. It’s baking off him. Anyway,” she adds, in a more normal tone of voice, “if you’re having coffee with him, what am _I_ meant to do, just hang around like a loose end? I’ve got studying to do.”

“He said Taylor – the guy who came in with him – could drive me back?” It’s meant to come out surer than that, but Kate’s intensity makes me unsure.

“Are you kidding me, Ana? You’re going to get in a car with some total stranger and let him drive you home?” She shakes her head, blonde curls flying. “No way. You go for coffee with Grey, sure, but I’m waiting up for you. And keep your phone on, okay?” Seeing my doubt, she raises her eyebrows and fixes me with a stare. “ _Okay_?”

I sigh. Honestly, though, I’m kind of relieved. At least I’ll have an escape route. “Yes, _Mom_ ,” I mutter rebelliously, but I can’t help smiling. It’s nice to have her on my side, even if she’s a bit paranoid. “I’ll meet you back here.”

Now her smile’s back, and she gives me a brief, tight hug. “Have fun, Ana. I’ll see you in a bit.”

And I’m free. Free to go back into the hallway, where Christian Grey lounges against the wall like a high-end model; free to head towards the elevators with him, my heart thumping; free to wonder what the hell I’m doing, going out for coffee with a man like this. I don’t even like coffee.

“How long have you known Miss Kavanagh?” he asks, pulling me out of my reverie, as he calls the elevator.

“Oh, um. Since freshman year. We’re on the same course, and, well, she’s a good friend.” I clamp my mouth closed, all too aware of my tendency to babble, and chew on my lip.

“Hmm,” Grey replies, and I can’t for the life of me tell what that’s supposed to mean. Luckily, before I can dwell on it too long, the elevator arrives, and the doors slide open to reveal a couple kissing passionately in the corner, who spring apart in some embarrassment. Cringing from the secondhand embarrassment myself, I follow Grey into the elevator. He’s the only one who seems unaffected by embarrassment, and when we step out onto the first floor, I hear the couple giggling nervously behind us. Grey smirks, and murmurs something about elevators that I don’t quite catch, reaching over to take my hand. His fingers are cool and smooth, and I feel strangely light-headed as he interlinks them with mine. Nobody has held my hand since third grade, when I briefly had a crush on a boy in my math class.

In the Portland Coffee House, four blocks down, Grey finally lets go of my hand and invites me to pick a table while he orders. “What would you like?”

“I’ll have… um – English Breakfast tea, bag out.”

He raises his eyebrows. “No coffee?”

“I’m not keen on coffee.”

“English Breakfast it is,” he agrees, with an unreadable smile, and goes to fetch our drinks. My heart beating out a tarentella, I take a seat and watch him from under my eyelashes as he heads to the counter. Two or three times, he swipes his fingers back through his now-dry curls, and I find myself wishing I could do the same. Hold him close, run my fingers through his hair, and...

“Penny for your thoughts?” He’s back, putting down his tray and handing me my tea. I blush, and focus on the teacup. Twinings, my favourite brand. With slightly trembling fingers, I open up the teabag and drop it into the water, while he sits down opposite me with painful elegance.

“I, um...” I say, when he continues to look at me questioningly. “Nothing interesting. I just... I haven’t been in here before.” It’s plucked out of the air, but it seems to satisfy him. He smiles, sipping his cappuchino, and watches me thoughtfully as I spoon the teabag back out of my cup and take a sip.

“...What is it?” I ask him, after a moment.

“Is he your boyfriend?”

It’s just as well I’ve swallowed my mouthful, or Grey would be looking at a faceful of English Breakfast. “I... wha... who?”

“The photographer. Levi Smith.”

I almost laugh. “Why would you think that?”

“Well, he just...” Wow, he sounds almost uncertain. I’ll treasure this moment, I know it. “You and he, the way you smiled at each other, how close you were.”

“Oh. Well, that’s just Levi. He’s a friendly guy, but I hardly know him.” Now I do laugh. It comes out high and nervous. “Would you be upset if he was?”

Grey’s eyes glitter, and he smiles, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he changes the subject. “I must admit, I find you fascinating, Miss Steele. So self-contained, so mysterious... I’d love to learn more about you.”

 _Self-contained? Mysterious? What are you on, buddy?_ But I restrain the urge to roll my eyes. He doesn’t seem like the type to say things he doesn’t mean, and, honestly, it’s quite nice to feel like a mystery, like someone interesting. I’ve never been the type who boys find interesting – I’m usually just a friend to them, just good old Ana, whose every thought shows on her face. The idea that I’m some kind of enigma to this wonderful man is like something out of a romance novel. I imagine this is how Jane Eyre must have felt when she first began to talk to Mr Rochester – I’m overwhelmed, strangely flattered, and I can’t help smiling.

The conversation starts to take giddying changes of direction, always on his initiative. He asks me about my family, and I tell him about my mum, about my father’s death, about the husbands she’s taken since – Ray, Carl, and now Bob. He asks me about school, about work, about my dream of travelling to Britain. We’re talking about my taste in novels by the time I finish my tea, and I realise that I still barely know anything about him – he’s told me, briefly, about his family, and that’s all. I’m about to ask him more about himself when my phone goes off. It’s a text from Kate: **Where are you? Almost ready to go?**

“I should go,” I apologise, tucking my phone back into my bag. “Kate’s waiting for me, we’ve both got studying to do...”

“I’ll walk you back,” he says, with another of those smiles I can’t read. “Come,” and he holds his hand out to me as we stand. Despite the brusque wording, I’m happy to accept, after the conversation we’ve just had. He seems far less insufferable than he did at first, and I’ve opened up to him more than I expected to. I take his hand with a little thrill of excitement, and we walk back to the Heathman in companionable silence – well, in silence, anyway. He looks calm enough, but my mind’s racing too fast to really be companionable. I feel like this whole thing has been a test somehow, and I have no idea whether I’ve passed or failed, or even what the test was for.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” I blurt out suddenly. It’s the natural end to that line of thought, but as soon as it’s out, I wish I hadn’t said it. My face is hot, and there goes my brief streak of not making a fool of myself in front of Christian Grey.

He smirks, which only makes my face grow hotter. “No, Anastasia. I don’t do the girlfriend thing.”

“Huh,” is all I can manage. He said he wasn’t gay. Then again, he would say that if he was closeted, wouldn’t he? He could be lying. Distracted, I forget to look before crossing the street, and the next thing I know, he’s yanking me back as a sports car rushes past half an inch away. I stumble, too shocked even to scream, and find myself falling back against his chest, breathing heavily. His lips are close to mine, his grey eyes dark with concern. I can feel his breath warm against my face, smelling of coffee and blueberry muffin. My legs feel weak. _I could have died_ , I think wildly. _He saved me. He saved my life_. And then, crazily, _this is the part where you kiss me, right?_ For a moment – one breathless, giddy, heart-stopping moment – I actually think he will. His lips look soft and strong, and so close to mine, and for the first time, I’m really aware of wanting someone to kiss me. _This has got to be the part where you kiss me. Please_.

He doesn’t, of course. He closes his eyes, his breathing as erratic as mine for a moment before it steadies. When he opens his eyes again, they seem strangely pained, his mouth setting into a hard line. He sets me upright, letting me go, and my heart plummets into my gut, still fluttering like a trapped sparrow from the adrenaline spike.

“You should steer clear of me,” he says, and there’s no humour in his voice now. “I’m not the man for you.”

 _What’s that meant to mean? You’re the one who invited me out! What are you playing at, Mr Grey?_ My cheeks burn with embarrassment  and my throat constricts, but, mercifully, I manage not to burst into tears then and there. I even manage to choke out a thank-you for the tea and the photoshoot, and to make my excuses before hurrying across the road, away from Christian Grey, desperate for the safety of the car and Kate’s sympathy.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter in particular comes with a hefty trigger warning for sexual assault. Also I cut Jose out of it, because honestly there was no way to make him un-terrible, and I didn't want to have to try to write the fallout of being sexually assaulted by a close friend, given all the other traumatic shit that's going to go down. /explanatory note

**4**

I barely make it around the corner before the tears start. I have to blink them away to see my phone as I text Kate, begging her to come and pick me up. When she arrives, I’m slumped against the wall of the deli on the corner, head in my hands, sniffling back my sobs. I know it’s ridiculous to be so upset at the loss of something I never even had, but it’s my first real taste of rejection, and it’s a bitter pill. I’ve always been the one rejecting before now, too shy and too disinterested to pursue men. I suddenly feel a pang of shame for the rejection I’ve doled out in my time. I can’t imagine how Jose is still my friend, after I’ve put him through this so many times. He must be tough.

_Stop it. Pull yourself together, for Christ’s sake. What did you expect?_ The voice of common sense is  harsh and unhelpful. _Life isn’t a romance novel, Steele._ But I want  it to be, at the moment. I want Christian to come sweeping around the corner, my knight in shining armour, and explain to me that it was all a misunderstanding, then hold me close and kiss me... at the same time, burning with shame and frustration, I hope I never see him again.

It’s Kate, not Christian, who saves me from myself, of course. Her Mercedes draws up against the curb, and she rushes to my side, leaving her car door wide open. “Ana! What’s wrong?” She pulls me in close, crushing me up against her chest. “What did that bastard do to you?” Although I can’t see her face, I know I wouldn’t want to be in Christian’s shoes right now. That’s Kate’s scary voice. She’s like the Hulk – you wouldn’t like her when she’s angry.

It does bring a small smile to my face, though. It’s nice, after a disappointment like that, to know that at least Kate is still on my side. The smile vanishes when I remember that she’ll actually expect an answer. “Nothing,” I mumble. _That’s the problem. He did nothing_.

She leans back just far enough to fix me with a disbelieving look, one perfect blonde eyebrow quirked. “Then why are you crying, Ana? You never cry. And why didn’t you walk back to the hotel with him, like you were going to?”

I want to tell her the truth. I want to cry on her shoulder and let Kate, who’s so much more experienced with this whole relationship thing, help me out. No matter how hard I try, though, I can’t think of a way to express what happened that doesn’t make me seem totally pathetic – probably because I’m _being_ totally pathetic. Instead, I just mumble something about having almost been run over, which is true, after all.

Kate reacts with horror, holding me at arm’s length and looking me up and down as if to check I’m still in one piece. “Oh my god, Ana! Are you okay?”

“Yes. No. Oh, Kate, I don’t even know.” I take a deep, shaky breath, wiping my eyes. “It didn’t hit me. Christian... I mean, Mr Grey saved me. But...” I trail off, sniffling, and Kate takes pity on me. Putting her arm around me, she steers me towards her car.

“Let’s go home, Ana,” she says gently. “I’ll make you a cup of tea and you can tell me all about it while I work on the article. Okay?”

I nod tearfully and let myself be guided to the car. We drive home in silence, without even the stereo. At home, Kate puts the kettle on and opens her laptop, while I huddle up on the couch with my arms wrapped around my knees. I feel ridiculous for just how upset I am, but Kate doesn’t laugh at me, and I’m able to sink into self-pity with a fairly clear conscience anyway.

With my hands wrapped around the steaming mug of tea, I tell Kate everything. When I reach the part about what him saying he’s not the man for me, that’s when she laughs out loud. “Oh, Ana. This is ridiculous. Why do you think he invited you out for coffee?”

“Um...”

“He likes you, Ana. He’s just being an ass about it.” Kate rolls her eyes, abandoning her work and coming to sit with me on the couch, her arm slinging around my shoulder. “I don’t know what he’s on about not being the man for you, but if he blew you off, he doesn’t deserve you. You’re a total babe. Why _wouldn’t_ he want to get some of that?”

I blink at her, raising my eyebrows, summoning up sarcasm despite my still watery eyes. “You’re right, Kate. Why _wouldn’t_ a notoriously handsome, charming, go-getting multi-millionaire want to date a shy, ugly brunette who hasn’t yet graduated with her useless major and gone to work in McDonalds because she’s too busy tripping over things?”

“Ana.” Kate’s voice is firm, scolding. “Don’t start that. You’re not ugly, you’re not nearly as clumsy as some people, and over my dead body are you ending up working at McDonalds. Anyway, maybe he’s got a thing for brunettes?”

That gets a laugh out of me, although it’s watery and shaky. “I don’t think so,” I remark, remembering the staff at Grey House. “I think he’s got more of a thing for blondes.”

Kate snorts, which always seems ridiculously unladylike coming from someone with her poise and grace, and tosses her head back. “He’s got a thing for _you_ , Ana. But if he’s too dumb to go and get you, that’s his own stupid fault. He doesn’t deserve you, anyway.”

“Don’t be silly.” But she has made me feel a lot better, even if what she’s saying is ridiculous. I give her a tight hug, more grateful than ever for her friendship, and wipe my eyes before levering myself up off the couch. “I ought to go study, and you need to work on that stupid article.”

It’s hard to study, though, with Christian Grey etched into my thoughts for the day. I read and make revision notes mechanically, knowing that I’ll have forgotten all of it by tomorrow. All I can think about is how stupid I’ve been, to think he would want me. After all, didn’t he tell me when we first met that he “didn’t do the girlfriend thing”? _No, Ana, you had to go and act like you were so special he’d break his streak, didn’t you? So special that you could make the mighty Christian Grey fall to his knees and proclaim love? Silly. Silly, romantic Ana._

I go to bed early that night, abandoning my revision as a lost cause. My sleep is troubled by dreams of him, woven through with all the stories I’ve devoured and revisited in my studies; he is Rochester, Darcy, Angel Clare, Dorian Grey. He is every romantic hero, every tragic figure, every far-off dream. I only wish I could be the heroine he deserves. I wish for a love story of my own. Even in my dreams, though, I know I’m no romantic lead. I’ll never be his.

* * *

 

By Friday, the whole affair with Grey has dulled to a blunt ache in the back of my mind, swept away by exams and revision and finally, when I put my pen down on Friday afternoon, the overwhelming knowledge that I’m done. My last ever exam is finished, my academic career is over, and my life starts here. It’s a strange feeling, somewhere between loss, panic, and wild celebration.

Kate, of course, is choosing to indulge the latter. We drive home from our last exam in her Mercedes, discussing our plans to go out that evening, carefully not marring the moment with discussion of the paper we just sat. I’m busy digging through my bag, trying to find my keys, as we pull up outside the apartment block; Kate is prattling about what she’s going to wear to the bar later, and whether it’s a night for dresses or jeans. Neither of us is expecting the parcel on our front doorstep, which Kate almost trips over as she goes to unlock it.

“Ana, there’s a parcel for you!” She hands the brown-paper-wrapped parcel to me as she turns the key in the lock, kicking off her shoes as she heads inside.

I look down at the parcel, baffled, as I follow her inside at a more sedate pace. I haven’t ordered anything from Amazon, and besides, there’s no trademark on the packaging – there isn’t even a sender’s name or address. The package is heavy for its size, and rectangular. I would think it was from my mom or Ray, but the name on the label is written in full – _Miss Anastasia Steele_ – and letters from my family are usually addressed to Ana. Closing the door behind me, I head over to flop on the couch, putting the package down on the coffee table.

“Who’s it from?” Kate leans out from the kitchen, holding the bottle of champagne we bought to celebrate the end of exams. I shrug, and she clucks her tongue. “Well, go on! Open it!”

For a moment, I have a fleeting suspicion that it’s from her, but that’s not Kate’s style. I don’t know whose style it is, though, and my heart is pounding in my chest as I carefully unfasten the wrappings, putting the tape in a little pile to throw away, finding myself moving with painful slowness. I almost don’t want to know what’s inside.

When I do see the parcel’s contents, though, my breath holds in my throat. A hardback, clothbound copy of _Tess of the d’Urbervilles_ , in three volumes, neatly encased in a half leather box. Even before I see the date inside the front cover, I know they’re better copies than I could ever afford. The printed inscription inside - _London: Jack R. Osgood, McIlvaine and Co., 1891._ – confirms that, and suddenly I’m afraid to touch them for fear of messing them up.

“Holy shit,” I whisper. “These are first editions.” Then, raising my voice, “Kate! Come and look at this!”

She’s at my side in a moment, and being almost as much as a bibliophile as I am – not to mention having sat the same paper on _Tess_ as I did today – she recognises what all the fuss is about immediately. By that time, I’m reading the square white card which came with the books; no name, just a quote from _Tess_. I frown at the words, written in neat cursive: ‘ _Why didn’t you tell me there was danger? Why didn’t you warn me?’ ‘Ladies know what to guard against, because they read novels that tell them of these tricks...’_

“Oh my god, Ana, these must have cost a _fortune_!” Kate has finished her reverent examination of the books, and looks to me, wide-eyed, as she tucks the third volume back into the box. “What does the card say?”

I hand it to her, wordlessly. She must have reached the same conclusion I have, because she looks up at me, eyes wide and awestruck. “Grey?”

“Must be,” I agree. “Can’t think of anyone else.”

“What does this card mean?”

“I have no idea. I think it’s a warning – honestly he keeps warning me off. I have no idea why. It’s not like I’m beating his door down.”

Kate’s initial awe has softened into something more worried; a frown furrows her usually smooth forehead. “No, but he’s kind of beating yours down, don’t you think? I know these are lovely, but... he warns against being around him, at the same time as leaving you thousands of dollars worth of irreplaceable books. That doesn’t make sense. And how does he even know where we live?”

I don’t know. I didn’t tell him, I know that much. I know something else – I can’t keep these books, no matter how much my bibliophile’s heart might be longing for them. I gather them up with a sigh. “I don’t know what his game is, but I’m not playing it. I’ll send them back. Maybe add a note with another stupidly obscure note from the book.”

“The bit where Angel Clare says fuck off?” Kate suggests, making me giggle. Sure, that’ll work. For now, though, I repack the books and leave them on the table, while Kate pours us each a glass of champagne and raises hers with over-the-top flamboyance. “To the end of exams, and our new life in Seattle!” We clink glasses, and drink.

There’s a lot more drinking ahead, of course. The bar we end up in is crowded with graduates having fun and a few younger students along for the ride. Kate talks me into one margarita, and then somehow there’s a pitcher of the stuff, and I’m on my fifth, halfway off my stool, while some guy from my English Literature class, whose name’s slipped my mind, sits with me. We chat happily about Trollope and Wilde, his hands moving expansively, a goofy smile on my face. I’m drunk enough that my total lack of social skills isn’t as hindering as usual, and although I hardly know him, I can talk quite happily. On the dancefloor, Kate is draped around Levi, who looks like all his Christmases have come at once. I know he’s had a crush on her for years, and I’m glad they finally seem to be dealing with the UST.

The margaritas, mixed with the champagne, are doing a number on me. I pat the guy I’m talking to – Mark? Mike? – on the shoulder, indicating the bar. “I’m going to, uh, powder my nose,” I tell him loudly, over the music, and get a little unsteadily to my feet. I don’t know how Kate can dance in high heels – I’m having trouble standing up in Converse. Stupid Kate and her stupid balance. “You want another drink when I get back?”

Mark-or-Mike gives me a thumbs-up, finishing off his margarita, and I roll off towards the ladies’ room. Of course, there’s a line, but it’s cool and relatively quiet in the corridor, and I can breathe a bit easier as I sink back against the wall, my head spinning. I pull out my phone to keep me entertained while the queue inches along, and play Snake for about five minutes before I get fed up with biting my own tail. Stupid game. Doesn’t even work properly. Stupid snake doesn’t turn when I tell it to turn.

I’m still not even at the door to the bathroom. I don’t know what’s going on in there, but it’s taking forever. Tapping my foot, I glance down at my phone, and, in a sudden spike of tequila-fuelled bravery, decide that now would be the perfect time to confront Christian about those stupid books. His number’s already stored on my phone, after all. What could go wrong?

He answers on the second ring, sounding surprised. “Anastasia?”

_Wait,_ the sober part of my brain whispers, _how does he know it’s you?_ Whatever. More important things to deal with. “Why’d’you send me the books?” I slur accusingly. “Didn’ ask for _books_ off you!”

“Anastasia, have you been drinking?”

I pout. What does he think he is, my mom? Wait, no, my mom isn’t that much of a control freak. “None’f your business.”

“Where are you?” His voice is a little sharper. My pout intensifies.

“In a bar, stupid. In a bar in Portland.”

“Which bar?”

I don’t answer for a moment, but he repeats it, more commandingly, and I can’t be bothered to lie. He’s in Seattle, after all. What’s he going to do about it? “O’Kelly’s or something, I don’t know.”

“How are you getting home?” His tone is sure and controlling, just what I’d expect from him. I get a sudden image of him as an old-fashioned movie director, with a megaphone and a riding crop, and I can’t help giggling. He doesn’t sound amused, though. “Anastasia, how are you getting home?”

“I dunno. Somehow.” He’s knocked me off-balance again, and I’m flailing to regain control of the conversation. “Christian. Christian, look, you can’t just send me books, ‘s stupid.”

The silence at the end of the phone is long, and the line is moving. Rolling my eyes, I hang up. Stupid Christian. Stupid books. I’m already in the bathroom stall, jeans around my ankles, when I remember that I’ve given him the wrong name for the bar. O’Kelly is the name of the family in that Trollope book. This is Connor’s Bar. That strikes me as very funny, and I crack up, leaning over with my hair dangling over my face and my head light and staticky-feeling.

I’m zipping up my jeans and heading out to wash my hands when my phone rings in my pocket, making me jump out of my skin. I almost drop it, suddenly horrified. I wasn’t expecting him to call _back_. “Hi?” I squeak.

“I’m coming to get you, Anastasia,” Christian says calmly, and hangs up. _Jesus. What?_ My heart is suddenly jolting in my chest, and I feel sick. But that’s stupid, of course. He’s in Seattle, and he can look all night for an O’Kelly’s, anyway. I pull a face, drop my phone back into my pocket, and wash my hands before heading back into the bar. Kate’s waiting for me there, with Levi and Mike-or-Mark.

“Where’ve you _been_ , Ana?” she demands, passing me a beer as I approach. If she’s drunk, it doesn’t show. Kate, unlike me, has an iron constitution when it comes to alcohol.

“In line for the restroom,” I tell her, and take a long mouthful of beer. The noise and warmth of the bar is getting to me, after the relative peace of the restroom, and my head spins. “I think I need some fresh air.”

“Lightweight,” she scoffs, and laughs as I walk away.

“Five minutes,” I call back to her, but I’m not sure if she hears, and I don’t look back to check. The air outside is cool and makes my head swim more than ever; I’m only just starting to realise how drunk I am. Champagne, margaritas, and beer are not a good mix on an empty stomach. I lean against the low wall of the car park, breathing slowly but steadily, and stare up at the blurry night sky. The alcohol is definitely affecting my vision. I don’t think I’ve actually been this drunk before.

“Ana?” It’s Mark/Mike, who’s come out to join me, drink in his hand. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I smile faintly at him. He’s taller than me, wiry and sharp-featured, and suddenly very close. I stumble slightly, and he catches me with a laugh. His arms are around my waist, and I’m suddenly aware of something pushing against my hip. _Please be a belt buckle_.

“Don’t worry.” He smiles down at me, his face almost touching mine. “I got you.”

I want to say his name, tell him to back off, tell him I’ve got it under control. But I can’t _remember_ his stupid name, and I’m too embarrassed to admit it, and all that comes out is something between a mumble and a whine. If he hears, he doesn’t react. I can smell his breath on my face, warmly alcoholic, unpleasantly damp. I try to push him away, but I think he misinterprets it, because suddenly he’s kissing me. His lips are surprisingly soft, but they weigh against me like lead. I’m frozen in indecision. I’ve never been kissed before. Is it supposed to feel like this? Is kissing always so slobbery and  heavy? His tongue slithers into my mouth like a slug, and I finally come back to myself, pulling away.

“I don’t want... I mean... please don’t...”

“Don’t worry,” he repeats. “I won’t tell anyone.” His lips are on my neck now, marking me, leaving a trail of kisses that makes my skin tingle into gooseflesh. “Oh, Ana... you have no idea, no idea how long...”

“I think the lady said no.”

I feel as though every nerve in my body has been shot through with electricity. _Grey? But... you’re in Seattle. You’re meant to be in Seattle. What’s going on? What are you doing?_ And, on top of that, wildly, _thank you thank you thank you._

Mike/Mark seems much less surprised, and much less relieved, by the interruption. “Hey, fuck off. Who d’you think you are? Fucking pervert!”

Christian glowers at him, his rage crackling like electricity. I don’t know which guy unnerves me more at the moment, but Mark/Mike lets go of me to square up to this new threat, and the nausea and dizziness I’ve been holding back take care of the rest. I collapse against the wall, stomach heaving, and vomit splatters onto Mark’s shoes. He leaps back with a noise of disgust, out of my line of vision, and then, through the haze of nausea and tears, I see Christian come in closer. He holds my hair back, guiding me towards the nearest flowerbed, and waits patiently while I try to push him away. I don’t want to be touched, not right now, not after what he just saw... but my strength seems to be escaping along with the contents of my stomach, and I know he’s only trying to help.

When I finally finish throwing up, I’ve been bringing up nothing but bile for some time, and my throat and mouth burn. My nostrils are full of the stink of my own sick, and my arms are shaking. I can’t think of a worse moment in my life. I’m humiliated, weak, in pain, with my stomach still tying itself into sickening knots and my brain fogged by white noise. I want to die. I want to sink into the ground, away from Christian’s searching gaze. I’m never drinking again.

“Sorry,” I mumble wretchedly, taking the monogrammed handkerchief he offers me and wiping my mouth.

“What are you sorry for?” I can’t tell, in my confused state, if he’s laughing at me or genuinely confused. Either way, I’m not entirely sure how to answer.

“Calling you... being sick...” I shrug, which is apparently too much for my shaking arms; I almost fall face-first into the flowerbed full of my own vomit. Christian catches me around the waist, clearly concerned. My head spins dizzily. He’s holding me again, but this time, kissing’s the furthest thing from my mind.

“Come on,” I hear him say, as if from a long way off. “I’m taking you home.”

“...Kate...” I mumble, leaning heavily on him. Kate will worry. That’s not fair on her.

“Elliot can tell her.” Christian’s arm is warm and strong around me. “My brother. They were talking when I came out here. Come on, I’ll get you a glass of water, and we can...”

But the rest of whatever he has to say is lost. Drained and exhausted, and with too much alcohol smothering my thoughts, I can’t keep my balance; the ground is coming up to meet me, tilting and warping, and my eyes unfocus. The last thing I hear before I black out completely is Christian, cursing.


	5. Chapter 5

I am comfortable, warm and sleepy, the light muted and almost as soft as the bed I’m lying on. I shift slightly, grumbling against the overstuffed pillow, and roll onto my face with my arms splaying out over the bed. It’s a big bed... too big, and too soft. Not my bed. Whose bed is it?

My mouth is dry and tastes vile, and it’s that’s which eventually gets me out of my doze. Blinking against the blissfully soft pillow, I lever myself up and look around. This is definitely not my bed, and not my room; the room is large and airy and opulently furnished, and although it’s nothing like my book-filled little bedroom at home, it’s oddly familiar. It takes the sight of the headboard, which is shaped like a huge bronze sun, to flick the switch in my memory. I’ve been in a room like this before, if a smaller one, only a week ago. The Heathman. I’m in the Heathman. Why am I...

_Grey!_ Memories of last night flood back, and I flail upright, my freak-out only worsened by the realisation that I’m mostly undressed – whoever put me to bed has taken off my jeans and socks, leaving me in my t-shirt and underwear. I only hope that’s all they did. Any shreds of comfort remaining from my sleep are blown away in the gale of horror at this situation. Why am I here? Did Christian bring me here? Does Kate know where I am? Does _anyone_ know where I am? My mind’s still fogged up with sleep, and in a prime position to make up all the horror stories it likes. I snatch the duvet up to pull over my bare legs, casting around the room for my jeans and wondering whether I can make it out of the hotel before anyone shows up. Orange juice and pills on the bedside table. A full-length mirror on the facing wall. A chair, a huge window, two doors. No jeans. I’m just getting up to look a bit harder when there’s a knock on the door, and I leap back into bed, yanking the covers back up over myself. I can’t find my voice, and I’m not sure what to call, anyway. _Come in_? _Go away_? I don’t even know what I want any more.

The burden of choice doesn’t, it turns out, fall on me anyway. Although I don’t answer him, Christian opens the door anyway, and my already dry mouth now makes the Gobi desert look like a swamp. His tight singlet is sweat-darkened and plastered to his toned chest, and the louche way his sweatpants hang from his hipbones makes me wonder what he’d look like them with them pulled just a little lower. Part of me wants to shout that he had no right to bring me here, to slap him and demand my jeans back and then storm out, but although I know that’s probably the sensible view – well, not the slapping, since I don’t feel up to facing off against Christian Grey in my underwear – another part of me is more preoccupied with how unsexy I am just out of bed, and my hand is stealing up to try and flatten my hair.

“Good morning, Anastasia,” he says casually, as if this is totally normal. Maybe it is for him. Oh, help. “How are you feeling?”

“Probably better than I deserve,” I croak. My mouth’s so arid it’s almost painful to speak; clearing my throat, I snatch the orange juice and sluice it down. It helps my dry throat, but does nothing for my confusion and alarm. “How did I get here? What happened? Where are my jeans?” Then, with a sudden sick feeling that almost makes me drop the empty juice glass: “We didn’t... I mean, I didn’t...?”

He laughs, a low, throaty sound that makes my heart jump in my chest, and puts the bag he’s carrying down on the chair before coming to sit on the bed next to me, taking the glass out of my hand. He smells of sweat and expensive body wash, and his smile crinkles the corners of his dancing eyes. He isn’t touching me, not quite, but he’s close enough that I can feel the heat baking off him. “We didn’t,” he assures me, quirking one reddish eyebrow, and smiles surprisingly gently. “You were out cold. Not really my thing. I prefer my women awake and willing.”

I let out a long, relieved breath, and almost relax before I remember where I am. “But... how did I...?”

“After you passed out, I didn’t want to risk the leather upholstery in my car taking you all the way to your apartment. So I brought you here.” Still that weirdly calm tone, that self-possession. I can’t read anything in his eyes, behind the amusement which is already fading. I give up the attempt and look down at the covers, clenching my fists and trying unsuccessfully to hold back my blush.

“I didn’t... throw up on you again, did I?”

“No.” His lips twitch into a smile again, briefly.

“And you put me to bed?”

“Yes.”

“Does Kate know I’m here?”

Another of those sidelong smiles twitches onto his face, taut and enigmatic. It doesn’t seem threatening, and, although I’m half-naked in a stranger’s room, I’m surprised by how safe I feel. Then again, maybe he’s not a stranger. He doesn’t seem to want to be a stranger.

“She will,” he says, bringing me out of my reverie. “I told Elliot. He’ll have let her know.”

“Elliot?” I blink at him, running my hands back through my hair to try and calm it. “Who’s Elliot?”

“My brother,” Christian replies indulgently. “He came with me last night. When I saw him last, he and Miss Kavanagh were getting... quite close, shall we say?”

I know what that means. Kate’s a modern woman, as she says fairly frequently, and it wouldn’t be the first time she’s ended up making breakfast for two. Poor Levi, though. He was obviously on cloud nine last night, before another Grey swept in to uproot another settled life. It seems to be a family speciality.

Speaking of uprooting, though... “You couldn’t’ve got Kate to drive me home?” I’m aware of how whiny I sound, but I can’t find it in me to fix it.  Yes, he obviously had the best intentions, but still...

“Miss Kavanagh?” he scoffs, and I bridle a little at his scorn. “Anastasia, she was drunker than you. She wasn’t in a state to drive anyone anywhere. I’m sorry if I overstepped the line, but...”

“If?” Oh, there we go. I’ve grasped the trailing ends of my indignation, and I can use that to haul myself out of my fog of confused emotions. “ _If_? What were you even doing at Connor’s? How did you find me? Why the hell did you _stalk_ me there?”

He looks almost wounded for a second before it’s overtaken by amusement, and the hurt look in his long-lashed eyes makes me feel a little guilty for my sharpness. “You told me where you were,” he points out. The glint of amusement is almost as short-lived as that flicker of hurt. “Besides, I’m glad I did come to find you. You hardly seemed too enthusiastic about that gentleman pressing his suit.”

I find myself stifling a giggle at his archaic turn of phrase. “What medieval chronicle did you walk out of?” I tease, relaxing a little. He’s right, after all; even though I’m sure Mark wouldn’t have done me any harm, I can’t deny I was relieved by Christian’s interruption. “You sound like some kind of courtly knight.”

“Anastasia, I don’t think so. Dark knight, maybe.” He smiles sardonically, and I feel like I’m missing something, some private joke he has with himself. _Melodrama and enigma, that seems to be what Christian’s all about,_ I think, and smile back faintly.

“If you say so. Where are my jeans?” I shift, the covers slipping down over my thighs, and look up at him.

“I had them sent to the laundry. You threw up on them, remember?” Of course I remember. How could I forget? I’m pretty sure that embarrassment is going to be seared on my brain for the rest of my life. Christian isn’t done yet, though. “I sent Taylor out for a clean pair.” He indicates the bag he set down on the chair, then frowns back down at me. “Did you eat last night, Anastasia?”

I shake my head, and shrink slightly from the disapproval on his face. His extraordinary eyes have darkened, his jaw tightening. I’m put on the defensive, confused by his sudden change in mood. “What? What’s wrong with that? Kate and I were going to...”

“Anastasia,” he cuts across me with a sigh, as if explaining to a child, “you have to eat. That’s why you were so ill. Honestly, that’s the first rule of drinking.” His hands run back through his wet hair, and he looks at me with disappointment, which is far worse than anger.

“Are you going to keep scolding me?” I grumble, hunching my shoulders and lowering my head to avoid his gaze. I don’t know what gives him the right to treat me like a child – well, I suppose I do. He had to come and save me from myself, after all. Even so, it’s exasparating.

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“I think so.”

“You’re lucky I’m just scolding you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if you were mine, you wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week after the stunt you pulled yesterday. You didn’t eat, you got drunk, you put yourself at risk.” He closes his eyes for a moment, his whole face tautening, and I see his fingers tighten in his lap. When he looks back at me, it’s definitely a glare, his eyes dark and fixing me like a butterfly pinned to a board. “I hate to think what could have happened.”

I wave it off, rolling my eyes. “Nothing would have happened. I was with Kate.” There’s a nasty, sick tightness at the back of my throat, though, when I think about Mark slobbering down my throat, his tongue invading my mouth, the slickness of his sweat... but nothing would have happened. It was just a kiss, that was all. _Hell of a first kiss, though_ , a voice at the back of my mind murmurs in disgust, and I shudder. I don’t want to dwell on that. Instead, I change the subject. “What do you mean, anyway, if I were yours?”

“Never mind.” He shakes his head, but a smirk plays around his lips again; he’s enjoying his private joke, whatever it is. It’s still frustrating, but looking at him like this, I’m struck again by just how handsome he is. His grey eyes are glittering, crinkled just a little at the corners, and his perfect white teeth just barely show between his cupid’s-bow lips. I swallow, my tongue darting out to wet my lips, and hope against hope that he doesn’t notice my staring. _I bet he would feel nicer to kiss_ _than Mark_ , I think, and duck my head, embarrassed by the thought and, at the same time, drawn towards it.

“I’m going to take a shower.” He stands up, hands on his knees, and smirks back at me, cocking his head to one side. “Unless you’d like to shower first?”

_I’d like to shower at the same time_. I have to clamp down on the thought, and I manage a rictus of a smile as I shrug. I’m having trouble breathing, my heart fluttering like a moth in his light. He laughs, that same throaty sound, and runs his finger down my cheek; his touch is electric, and it takes all my willpower not to kiss his thumb when it brushes lightly over my lower lip. I force myself to remember that he said we weren’t right for each other. He doesn’t want me, no matter what clues point in that direction, no matter how tantalising he’s being.  It really isn’t fair, though. Does he realise how powerful an effect he has?

“Breathe, Anastasia.” His voice is low, but ringing with amusement. “Breakfast will be here in fifteen minutes. You must be famished.” And with that, he disappears into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. My breath whooshes out of me in a gasp, freed from the constriction of his presence. Nobody’s ever made me feel like this before; a desperate, aching need is sweeping through me, a tingling tightness in the deepest parts of me, an emptiness that longs for him. God, the one man I lust after, and of course he’s the one most out of my reach. _Get a hold of yourself, Ana_. I give myself a mental slap and struggle out of bed on trembling legs.

He’s right. I am famished. I become aware of it slowly, as I stumble out of bed and dig through the bag he’s left on the chair. It doesn’t just contain jeans, but new Converse, a fresh blue t-shirt, socks and... _Oh, you have to be kidding me_. The last couple of things I draw out of the bag are elegant and very expensive-looking, a diaphanous, designer confection of pastel-blue lace, but holy _shit_ , they’re inappropriate. Who the hell sends their bodyguard out to buy strange girls lingerie? I blush just thinking about Taylor wandering around a lingerie shop to find bras and panties for me.

“You like them?” Christian emerges from the bathroom as I’m examining the underwear, and I drop it like I’ve been burnt, my heart thudding in my chest. I’m about to accuse him of perversion, but of course, it does make sense that he’d get me fresh underwear. God knows I don’t want to keep wearing yesterday’s. It’s just as well I don’t have any accusation to levy against him, too, because when I wheel around to face him, my breath catches in my throat and I can only gape. He’s all but naked, with only a towel around his waist, and his abs are as chiselled as his unshaven jaw; the towel is low on his hips, and I can see the soft curve of his hipbones and, between them, the coarse trail of wet hair which runs from his navel down under the fluffy white towel. He belongs in the Louvre, a perfect work of art. Meanwhile, there’s me, hair wild and tangled, spot on my forehead, bare legs thin and white and in need of shaving. If I belong anywhere, it’s in a freakshow. I look away. _That’s just not fair_.

“I’ll, um... shower. I need a shower,” I manage to stammer out, and scoop up the pile of clothes in my arms before darting towards the bathroom, away from the unnerving proximity of naked Christian.

The bathroom does nothing to soothe my suddenly awakened libido, though. It’s still warm and steamy from his shower, and the air smells like him, that intoxicating smell of his body wash. When I strip down, I’m disconcerted to find my panties are damper than can be explained by the steam. _Oh, God, don’t let him have noticed that,_ I think fervently, as I tug off my crumpled t-shirt and sweaty bra. Underneath, my nipples stand erect, as if it’s cold, although the nape of my neck is prickling with sweat. I try to ignore that, stepping into the shower and turning my face up to the water. My libido, though, seems determined to make up for lost time now it’s finally sprung into existence, and I can’t shake the thought of how much better this shower would be if he were in it with me, his lips and hands running over my wet skin, his chiselled muscles pushed against me...

I snap open the top of his body wash and inhale deeply. It smells of him, the same smell that permeates this whole room. He’s inescapable here, and I’m not so sure I want to escape after all. As I rub the soap over myself, feeling it slick and soft under my fingers, I close my eyes and imagine that the fingers are his, slim and quick, teasing against my breasts, my buttocks, slipping over my belly, and at last between my thighs, where the slickness is more than just soap and water. I’ve never touched myself like this before, with intent, and the ecstasy of it overtakes me. Eagerly, I press a little harder, my knees buckling slightly, my free hand in my hair. The water continues to  thunder down on me, dripping from my swollen nipples and pooling in the cupped curve of my palm as my fingers explore myself. I picture Christian’s grey eyes boring into me, imagine him feeling this same glorious heat as he watches my lips part and hears me moan softly into the flow of the water. My heart thunders against my ribs, and I can feel something mounting deep inside me, a tingling kind of excitement. I slip my free hand out of my hair, cupping the firm roundness of my own breast, and try to find the nub of my clit, which I touched by accident at first but which awoke such delicious feelings in me. My fingertip dances over it, lightly at first, then begins to circle around it, teasing. He seems the type to tease. I am lost, afloat in my own imaginings, and Christian is there with me, holding me, loving me...

The knock on the door tears me unceremoniously back into reality, and I splutter shower water, my eyes stinging as they spring open automatically, my hand pausing between my legs. Christian calls through the door: “Breakfast is here.”

“Okay!” I squeak. I haven’t washed my hair, which really needs it, and soap still clings in the folds under my breasts and between my thighs, but I still shut off the shower and hurry out before I can embarrass myself further. My skin is still hypersensitive, but I force myself to ignore its responses as I towel myself off and wrap my hair in another fluffy white towel.

Despite my reservations, I pull on the new underwear. I tell myself it’s purely practicality that stops me turning them down in favour of my own plain white bra and panties, but I know there’s more to it than that. I like wearing them. I don’t often wear beautiful things, but, more importantly, these are from him. The connection makes my skin tingle. I’m a little disturbed by just how perfectly they fit, though – I can imagine that he might be able to guess my cup size by looking, with practice, but I’ve never worn underwear that fits quite this well, and if _I_ can’t work out what size bra I take, how the hell can _he_?

I don’t want to dwell on that thought, though, which is threatening to drag down the buzz still tingling through my skin. Instead, I dress quickly, covering up the eerily well-fitting underwear with the outerwear whose perfect fit is nothing like as creepy, and head back into the bedroom. My hair is still wrapped up in the towel; I try to dry it, but I have a lot of hair, and I know that even with the aid of a hairdryer, it’ll take forever to dry. Without one, it’s hopeless.

As I enter the enormous living area of the suite, Christian looks up at me from a dining table the size of a tennis court. He’s dressed now, thankfully for my still-active sex drive. His pristine white linen shirt doesn’t exactly make him look less like a model, but at least I don’t have the distraction of that tantalising trail of hair.

“Sit,” he orders, waving imperiously to the chair opposite him. I meekly do as I’m told, looking down at the bewildering variety of breakfast foods on the table. It’s just as well it’s a huge table, if he always orders this much food.

“I didn’t know what you liked,” he says almost apologetically, in response to my bewilderment, “so I ordered a selection from the breakfast menu.”

_Such excess!_ I think dryly. He’s like a caricature out of Thackaray, with his over-the-top responses to stupid situations like that. Any normal person would have asked. Then again, any normal person would have bought plain underwear, if any, and would have shown a little more shame about showering in front of someone they’d announced their disinterest in. Christian Grey is pretty obviously not a normal person. He is considerate, though. He’s even prepared a cup of Twinings English Breakfast, bag out. That’s a nice touch.

As I shovel down pancakes and maple syrup, I become aware that he’s staring. It’s probably my awful table manners. I blush, and try to neaten myself up, but he continues to stare. I can feel his judging look on me, and I squirm uncomfortably.

“Your hair’s still wet,” he observes, or rather scolds.

“Well, I was in the shower, you see.” I try to make a joke out of it, but he’s not having it. I sigh. “I couldn’t find the hairdryer, okay? Anyway, you’ve seen how long it is. It takes ages to dry.” He doesn’t seem appeased by that explanation. Well, screw him. It’s the truth. The silence and his grim expression are uncomfortable, though, and I change tack. “Thank you for the clothes. They’re lovely.”

“It’s a pleasure, Anastasia.” Now he smiles. Thank God. “That colour suits you.”

“I don’t know...” I mumble, looking down at my fingers. My cheeks are warm. I wish he wouldn’t flatter me; it only makes me more aware of how utterly outclassed I am in the looks department.

“You need to learn to take a compliment,” he chides me gently.

My blush deepens. “I should give you money for the clothes.” He glares at me like he finds the idea personally offensive, but I soldier on. “I mean, you gave me the books, and of course I can’t accept those, but these... let me pay for them. You don’t have to buy me things.”

“Trust me. I can afford it.”

“Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.” An acid note has crept into my tone. His smug control-freakery is starting to get me down again.

“But I want to.” His eyes dance, and I have the disconcerting feeling that this conversation is taking place on two levels, although I’m only aware of one. “As I think I told you, Miss Steele, I tend to get what I want.”

“Well, maybe you ought to think about whether other people want it, too, when you get them presents.” Putting down my knife and fork, I fold my arms. “Why did you get me those books, anyway?”

“With what happened last week... the coffee, and that moment after you were almost run over, when you were looking up at me and practically begging me to kiss you... Well, I felt I owed you an apology. A warning.” He runs his hand through his hair. “Anastasia, I’m not a hearts and flowers kind of man, I don’t do romance. My tastes are very... singular. You should steer clear from me.”

“Says the man who stalked me to a bar,” I grumble into my bacon, but my attention’s fixed on him.

He makes a little noise in the back of his throat, a tacit agreement, maybe even an apology. “As you might have noticed, I’m finding it impossible to stay away myself. There’s something about you, Anastasia. I’m drawn to you. I can’t keep away.”

The world seems to have faded away. My blood is rushing like thunder in my ears. I meet his eyes, and remember the daydream I had in the shower. I want those eyes on me, to see me naked and open for him. I want him to want me. I want to believe what he’s saying.

Summoning all my courage, I swallow and look at him, hoping he can see my feelings in my eyes. “Then don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t fight it. Please, Christian, don’t keep away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to break the chapter off there, although the chapter in the book goes on a way longer, because it was getting kind of long. Hopefully I don't now lose my place!


	6. Chapter 6

For a moment, Christian stares at me, his eyes wide and his jaw slack. Overlaying my panic comes a slightly hysterical smugness; I’ve managed to shock him. I don’t understand how or why, but I’ve made Christian Grey lose his composure.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he murmurs, after a moment.

“I’m saying,” I retort, “that if we both want to be around each other, there’s no reason we shouldn’t. Is there?”

I can’t read his expression, which has lost that slackjawed shock, but gained very little humour. My heart is in my mouth, my cards are on the table, and the ball is in his court. All I can do is sit there, watching his slim fingers drum an uneasy tattoo on the polished table, and pray for him to answer already. _Put me out of my misery, Grey_ , I think frustratedly, resting my fork back on my plate. His grey eyes bore into mine, and I’m reminded again of Adonis, this time in marble; unmoving, unspeaking, caught in the moment. Dread is building in my chest like floodwater in a canal, about ready to break its banks.

“What are your plans today?” he asks suddenly, his voice low. There’s a significant edge to it, but I’m startled enough by the non-sequiteur that it’s a miracle I manage even to catch the meaning of the _words_ , let alone the tone.

“I, uh... I’m working from midday.” It occurs to me that I don’t know what time it is now, and I sit up a little in my chair, casting around to try and see a clock. “Shit, what time is...?”

“Ten o’clock.” He sounds amused. That much, I can read, and that helps me relax a little. “You’ve got plenty of time. How about tomorrow?”

He’s looking at me with disarming intensity, fingers steepled in front of him, elbows on the table. It’s hard to focus with all his attention on me like that, and it takes me a moment to answer. “Tomorrow, we’re going to start packing. We’re moving out this weekend, and I’m working all week.”

Christian’s eyebrows rise a little. “You’re moving already? To Seattle?”

I nod. “Sure. Pike Place.” Damn! He’s driving me off-topic again. Chewing on my lip, I try to redirect the conversation. “Look, that’s not the point. Us. I mean, you and me. I mean...”

“Stop that,” he says softly, as I trail off. “You make me want to bite that lip of yours.”

My breath catches in my throat. “Why don’t you, then?” I challenge him, my heart beating a tattoo every bit as frantically as his fingers on the table. That’s the sexiest thing anybody’s ever said to me – it’s certainly the most overt. My thighs rub together, and I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. Now that he’s said it, it’s hard to take my mind off him biting my lip, his perfect white teeth tugging gently, his breath warm on my mouth...

“Because I’m not going to touch you, Anastasia. Not until I have your written consent to do so.”

Written consent? Well, that’s a mood-killer. I realise with some embarrassment that I’m pouting, but, really, who asks for _written consent_ to kiss someone? _Christian Grey, apparently_ , I think sardonically, and stifle a smile. Out loud, all I say is “What does that mean?”

“Exactly what I say.”

“Spake the enigma,” I grumble, looking back down at my unfinished breakfast.

Again, that low, throaty laugh that goes right to my libido. Christian shakes his head with something between frustration and amusement. “I need to show you, Anastasia. What time do you finish work this evening?”

“About eight.”

“Well, we could go to Seattle this evening or next Saturday for dinner at my place, and I’ll acquaint you with the facts then. The choice is yours.”

“I choose for you to tell me now.” I don’t understand what he’s driving at, but I don’t like it. If it’s so important, why can’t he just spill it already?

“That wasn’t on the list.” There’s a new sternness to his voice, and his amusement is clearly fading. “I’m enjoying our meal together, Anastasia. Once you know the truth, you probably won’t want to see me again.”

Holy shit, could he be any more overdramatic? Still, I can’t help but wonder what he means – what could be so bad that he thinks I wouldn’t want to see him again over it? He clearly didn’t have that worry about kidnapping me from a bar while drunk, or buying me lingerie, so I have difficulty imagining what he _would_ worry about. Is his company a front for a crime syndicate or something? Does he hire hitmen to mow down the competition? Does he have a portrait that does his aging for him? My curiosity, which was pretty minor before, is thoroughly piqued now, and I know the longer I wait to hear the truth, the more outlandish my theories are going to get. That’ll only make it more of a letdown when it turns out his deep dark secret is an STI or something.

“In that case,” I say firmly, “I choose this evening.”

“Like Eve, you’re so quick to eat from the tree of knowledge.” He smirks, smug as ever. I want to say something cutting, to wipe that smirk off his face, but nothing’s coming. I just know _esprit d’escalier_ will strike as soon as I leave the hotel. For now, though, I’m stuck just fuming quietly as he picks up his BlackBerry and presses a button.

“Taylor. I’m going to need Charlie Tango. From Portland at say twenty-thirty... No, standby at Escala… All night.”

_All night?_ I can’t hear the rest of what he says – some jargon or other – for those two words echoing in my head. They sound at once threatening and promising, not to mention presumptuous. If he thinks I’ll want to escape after he tells me, why all night? And who’s Charlie Tango? As soon as he’s put the phone down, I ask him, but he just laughs and tells me I’m worrying too much.

“You should finish your breakfast. And then I’ll drop you home. I’ll pick you up at Clayton’s at eight when you finish. We’ll fly up to Seattle.”

“Fly?”

“Yes.” His eyes dance. It makes him look more like a young man, mischievous and happy, and it endears him to me all the more. It’s that annoying self-confidence again, that knowledge that he’ll get what he wants. It should be tooth-grindingly irritating, and it often is, but it’s also surprisingly attractive. “In Charlie Tango. My helicopter.”

“Let me get this straight,” I say slowly, still kind of in shock. “You’re flying us to Seattle. On no notice. In your private helicopter. Why?”

“Because I can.” His smile is pure mischief, and it catches me up in its sudden openness so that I find myself smiling too. Then it’s gone, and the strictness is back. “Eat your breakfast, Anastasia. I don’t like wasted food.”

I look down at my cold, congealing bacon, at the table practically groaning under food, and gape back up at him. “I can’t eat all this!”

“Eat what’s on your plate.” From that mischievous smile, he now looks positively angry, his eyes dark and his mouth a hard line. “If you’d eaten properly yesterday, you wouldn’t be here, and I wouldn’t be declaring my hand so soon.”

_Yeah, well, don’t blame me for that_ , I grumble, but only in my head. He’s far too grim-looking for me to risk arguing with. Instead, I just apply myself to my cold food, glaring at the plate. _Anyway, it’s not like I’m going out drinking again. What are you, my dad?_ But I choke down the last few mouthfuls of stickily cooled pancake anyway, and look up at him.

“Good girl,” he says. “I’ll take you home when you’ve dried your hair. I don’t want you getting ill.”

“Seriously, what do you think I am, five?” I might have said that out loud. Oops. Blushing fiercely, I stand up and head towards his bedroom, only to be pulled up by a sudden realisation. There are no blankets anywhere, no pillows, no sign that anyone slept here the night before. My eyes are drawn back inexorably to Christian, sitting at the breakfast table like a throned emperor. “Where... Christian, where did you sleep last night?”

“In my bed,” he says simply, his gaze impassive again.

“Oh.” It’s all I can think of to say. My brain has gone into shutdown mode. _In the same bed. We slept in the same bed._

“Yes, it was quite a novelty for me too.” He smiles.

“A gentleman,” I manage, with slightly feeble sardonicism, “would have taken the couch. But you’re not much of a gentleman, are you, Mr Grey?”

“No, Miss Steele.” He gives me a Cheshire Cat smile, reaching for the newspaper. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I already told you, we didn’t have sex.”

I believe him. In a way, that’s disappointing, but then, I guess I wouldn’t really want my first time to be while I was blackout drunk. Maybe... maybe tonight? _All night_ , he’d said. I feel a pleasant shiver go down my spine, although the thought that he slept in the same bed as me lingers as I wash and tidy my hair and pack yesterday’s clothes into the plastic bag he brought me. I don’t like that he decided thatwas okay. It’s a big suite. Surely he could have put me on the couch, even if he didn’t want to sleep there himself? I was so out of it, I probably wouldn’t have known the difference. And, if we didn’t have sex, what did he mean about novelty?

_Tonight_ , I promise myself. _I’ll find out tonight_. For now, I just need to get home, brush my teeth – seriously, he could get me new underwear but not a toothbrush? – and make sure I’m ready for work. The mystery of Christian Grey can wait until tonight.

We head out of the suite together. Despite my resolution not to think about it any more, every time my eyes catch him, another question pops into my head. He’s so far out of my league he’s on a different planet, so why did we sleep together, and why, in the name of all that is good and holy, does he want to spend another night with me? What’s the catch? What am I missing? Then, as we step into the enclosed space of the elevator and the tingle of sexual tension becomes suddenly more charged, all those questions are swept away in favour of just one: _Why should I care?_ He’s here, right now. He’s with me. He wants me. Why should I care about anything else? I bite my lip, looking up at him, and his eyes darken.

“Oh, fuck the paperwork,” I hear him murmur, and then he’s against me, pushing me with a thud against the mirrored walls of the elevator, holding both my wrists over my head. His free hand wraps around my ponytail and pulls back, turning my face up to his. It’s on the edge of pain, but that only makes my heart beat faster – or maybe that’s because of his hips, pinning mine against the walls, and the bulge which I’m pretty certain this time _isn’t_ a belt buckle. I open my mouth with a little sigh – or is it a moan? – letting him take control, his lips soft but firm against mine, his tongue expertly darting over the crevices of my mouth. To hell with the slobber and sickness of the night before, _this_ is a kiss, my first _real_ kiss, and I respond eagerly if inexpertly, my body arching up against him. His mouth tastes of coffee, but somehow, on him, it’s a _good_ taste; his body against mine is strong and unyielding, pushing the lacy cups of my new bra up against the sensitive tips of my breasts.

Then the elevator judders to a stop, the doors open, and the moment passes. Christian pushes away from me, straightening his tie, and stalks out past the three smirking businessmen standing at the door. Blushing furiously under their knowing looks, I duck my head and scuttle after Christian as he grabs my hand.

“What is it about elevators?” he mutters almost crossly as we leave the lobby, but I can’t summon up any kind of an answer. As far as I can tell, my wits have been left behind me – left scattered and lost in the third elevator of the Heathman Hotel.

* * *

We drive back to my apartment without more than a few words between us. He has to take a string of business calls, and between the speakerphone and the Delibes he’s playing on the stereo, I couldn’t get a word in edgeways even if I wanted to. I don’t mind all that much. I’m still thinking about our kiss in the elevator. It didn’t feel like the sort of thing that ought to happen to me – not to plain, clumsy Ana Steele, still a virgin at twenty-one. Although my lips are still a little kiss-swollen, I’m already having trouble believing it happened at all.

We pull up outside the building, and Christian opens the passenger for me. I’m a little surprised that he didn’t have to ask me for directions, but, after all, he must know where I live – he sent me the books. It’s a slightly freaky thought, like a lot of the things he’s done; it sends a tingle up my spine that isn’t wholely unpleasant. He likes me enough to do his research. It’s kind of flattering, when you look at it like that.

All thoughts of that are driven out of my mind, though, when I open the front door to find a half-naked man lounging on the couch with Kate. It’s not the first time, but it’s not exactly normal, either, and I’ve never had someone else with me when it happened. I go bright red, hands covering my mouth.

“Elliot.” Christian sounds resigned rather than embarrassed. “It’s eleven  o’clock. You could at least have put a shirt on by now.”

“Oh, hi, Christian.” Elliot grins, swinging Kate’s legs off his lap as he stands up. He doesn’t look at all like Christian – curly blond hair, broad shoulders, and light blue eyes – but he’s definitely not bad-looking. Of course, the fact that he’s only wearing his boxers doesn’t hurt that impression, not when all of him seems to be as well-developed as his shoulders. I try not to stare. “And you must be Ana. I’ve been hearing all about you.”

“Don’t believe a word Kate says,” I manage to stammer out. Kate rolls her eyes, sashaying over to us and putting her hand on Elliot’s shoulder. She looks as mussed-up as he does, her hair a wild tangle and several visible lovebites on her neck and shoulder – which are bare because, like Elliot, she’s still in her underwear. I guess at least they’re _wearing_ underwear.

“Didn’t I tell you?” she says to Elliot, with a little laugh. “Modest to a fault.”Then, without warning, I’m treated to a hug. Kate feels warm and still a little sweat-sticky, but I hug her back with hesitation. “Hi, Ana. I was just getting worried you’d run off to sea with the beefcake.” Pulling back, she examines me for a moment before turning to Christian. As ever, even in her underwear, she’s unembarrassable, and the amount of skin she’s showing doesn’t at all distract from the icy hostility underlying her voice. “Good morning, Christian.”

“Miss Kavanagh.” He’s just as coldly formal as she is.

“Jesus, Christian. Her name’s _Kate_.” Elliot’s voice is full of fond exasparation. Now that Kate’s pulled away, he moves as if to give me a hug, but I duck away as subtly as I can. I can just about handle strange guys hugging me, but strange guys in nothing but boxers? That’s a bit far.

Christian clears his throat. “Elliot, we should go.”

“Sure. Sure.” Elliot turns to pull Kate into a long, lingering kiss, which she melts into with remarkable softness, and then turns towards her room. “Just let me get some pants on, okay? Hate to scar the neighbours.” And then he’s gone, and there’s only occasional scuffling noises from the next room as he scrambles into his clothes. Christian, Kate, and I stand in awkward silence in the main room, and for once, neither Kate nor Christian seem to have much to say for themselves. It’s a relief when Elliot reappears, now fully-dressed, and dips Kate for a kiss before joining Christian at the door. “Laters, baby,” he says to Kate, with a lopsided smile and a little laugh, and blows her a kiss. Kate mimes catching it, and seems to be overtaken by very uncharacteristic giggles.

“Laters, baby,” Christian murmurs to me, while the two of them are being  sickening, and the endearment makes my heart flutter, although I know he’s kidding around. Then again, the fact that Christian Uptight Grey is kidding around is, in itself, pretty heart-stopping. He meets my eyes, and matches my smile. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“Eight,” I agree in a muted murmur, unable to find my voice, and smile stupidly at his back as he and Elliot leave. We stand on the porch,  watching the Grey brothers climb into Christian’s car and drive off, and then Kate pulls back and closes the door.

“So.” She turns to me, all but naked, her eyes dancing. “Did you?”

“No!” I slap her lightly on the arm, glaring at her, as we head back into the apartment. “You obviously did, though.” I can’t help feeling a little jealous. It’s not just that she’s moving like a cat, totally unfussed by how exposed she is; it’s that she’s the kind of person who _can_ be so unencumbered, the kind of person who snags a guy like Elliot any time she wants to. She’s beautiful, witty, smart, forward, self-confident... all those things I’m not. And, this morning, she’s clearly been enjoying that.

He does seem different, though. When she tells me she’s seeing him again tonight, she sounds uncontainably excited, practically jumping up and down. To be fair, though, I have a similar difficulty containing myself when I tell her I’m going to Seattle with Christian tonight.

“ _Seattle_?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you will then?”

“Oh, I hope so.”

That makes Kate laugh good-naturedly. I find myself comparing her laugh to Christian’s. They’re nothing alike; where his is low and husky, hers is light and loud and remarkably unpretentious. “You like him, then?”

“Yes.”

“Like him enough to...?”

“ _Yes_.” I blush. I wish she’d stop. She should know by now that I’m not as comfortable with the whole business as she is. Maybe she does. Maybe that’s why she keeps bringing it up.

“Right!” I don’t know where her hostility towards Christian comes from, but it’s gone in a moment. She’s got her eye on a project, I can tell, and it doesn’t surprise me. Kate’s always been nosy about my love life. Now she knows there’s a chance it might actually go somewhere, I can pretty much see her face light up. “You go and shower or brush your teeth or whatever, and I’ll get dressed and make coffee, and you can tell me all about last night. And then, Ana...” She smirks, brushing her hands together briskly. “Then, we are going to make you _irresistable_!”

That sounds like it could be painful, time-consuming, and humiliating. I grimace. “I have to be at work in an hour.”

Kate fixes me with a gimlet stare to rival Christian’s, although she's still smiling. “Then we’re just going to have to work fast.”


	7. Chapter 7

Christian is, predictably, prompt in picking me up. It doesn’t really feel like it, though. The afternoon has dragged on, and I hardly feel like myself after all Kate’s attentions. My legs sting from waxing, and I’m glad I drew the line at a bikini wax, although Kate offered. My eyebrows are plucked into high arches, unfamiliarly thin and still a little itchy, and the makeup she applied on me feels heavy and odd on my face. Add that to the panic of running around after all the summer shoppers, and to my nerves about the evening ahead, and my shift at Claytons has to be the longest eight hours I’ve ever spent. When I finally leave the shop and see him smiling warmly at me from the car park, I’m so tired I’m not even sure I can make it through the evening with him.

Then I remember what might well happen, and I’m awake again. I know Kate has her doubts – she told me so in no uncertain terms – and I’ve been nursing my own worries, but when I see Christian’s open, youthful smile and dancing eyes, I know I won’t regret it. I can’t think of anyone more fascinating, or more perfect. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather break my twenty-one year streak with.

He opens the door of his Audi for me, and, self-consciously tugging at the too-short hem of the dress Kate lent me, I climb inside. Taylor is sitting in the driver’s seat, impassive as ever.

“Hello, Taylor,” I greet him with a smile as Christian closes the car door and walks around to get in the other side.

“Good evening, Miss Steele,” he says, looking at me in the driver’s mirror, and favours me with a little nod. Otherwise, he’s the model of professionalism, his voice cool and calm.

“How was work?” Christian’s voice is _not_ cool, although it is calm; it’s a low purr that seems to carry an undefineable kind of heat in it. His hand clasps mine, and it’s as though the heat in his voice travels through that link, settling warm and tingly in the pit of my stomach. I gulp, and it takes me a moment to gather my thoughts enough to answer.

“Long,” I say truthfully, with a wry little smile. My voice, though, isn’t so easily disguised; that heat spills out of it, husky and needy. _Damn, Ana, be cool!_

Thankfully, Christian doesn’t seem to have noticed. As Taylor puts the Audi into gear and drives off, Christian’s thumb runs small, charged circles on the back of my hand. His grey eyes bore into me, dark and intense. “I had a long day as well,” he says seriously, but I can’t help feeling that his mind, like mine, is elsewhere.

“Oh?” I squeak, when the silence stretches on just a bit too far. _Yep. Cool. I’m so good at cool._

“I went hiking with Elliot,” he says almost meditatively, thumb still running over my hand. His fingers are soft and uncalloused, and surprisingly cool. I can feel my heart rate rushing, and I’m just about to do something I’ll regret when he suddenly withdraws his hand. Looking up like I’m just surfacing from hypnosis, I see that we’ve driven to a small car park in a built-up part of the city, and Taylor is already pulling the Audi forwards into a parking bay.

“Ready?” Christian asks me, unbuckling his seatbelt as Taylor opens my door.

I swallow, looking around for the helicopter, but manage a nod. “When you are,” I manage, but it takes me several seconds to force out, by which time Christian has already taken my hand back and is starting to lead me towards the building.

“Taylor,” he says over his shoulder, with a curt nod, and we head into the building. He leads me unerringly to a bank of elevators, and immediately my mind takes a vacation back to this morning and the third elevator of the Heathman Hotel. Maybe Christian sees something of that in my face, or maybe he’s just thinking along the same lines, because he looks down at me with clear amusement. “It’s only three floors,” he says dryly, as the elevator doors slide open. We step inside, my hand still in his, and my heart is thundering like a stormfront in my ears. _What is it about elevators?_

It’s a brief journey up to the roof, where the cool evening air strikes me in the face as we step out of the elevator. And there’s the heliocopter, parked on the flat roof, picked out by the floodlights. It’s white, and written on the side in large blue letters is the company trademark; _Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc_. It doesn’t look any less ridiculous on the side of a helicopter. Instead, there’s just the added ridiculousness of anyone – even a CEO – using a company helicopter for a date. I might start to second-guess my judgement on this whole trip, but before I have the chance, Christian is pulling me to a small office. An old man, grey-haired but gimlet-eyed, looks up at us from behind his desk and holds out a couple of papers. “Here’s your flight plan, Mr. Grey. All external checks are done. It’s ready and waiting sir. You’re cleared to go.”

“Thank you, Joe.” I’m surprised by the warmth of Christian’s smile. I was starting to think I was the only person to see that smile – he certainly wasn’t that polite to his other employers. It’s possible Joe is more than your standard employee. I make a mental note to ask Christian later, but for now, I just smile at the old guy, smooth my skirt, and let Christian steer me to the helicopter. It’s bigger than I first realised – not just some little two-seater, but a real people-carrier with six or seven seats.  Christian hauls the door open like he’s done it a thousand times, which he probably has, and indicates a seat right at the front, next to the pilot’s controls. “Sit. Don’t touch anything.”

 _Rude_ , I think, but I do as I’m told, very aware of the fact that I’m in a skirt and stepping up in front of him. I hope the view doesn’t scare him off; I’m not used to moving in a skirt, let alone the short dress Kate lent me, and I’m sure he’s getting an eyeful. He doesn’t seem to mind, though, just smirks slightly as he follows me into the helicopter and closes the door behind him.

The light inside the cockpit has a strange, artificial tint to it – cast by the floodlights from outside, it’s blue-white and casts long shadows. Those shadows seem to cluster on Christian’s face, picking out high cheekbones and the strong bridge of his nose, as he crouches beside me and buckles me into the seat. His fingers are gentle against my chest, where the four seatbelts converge to one buckle, and he’s so close that his hair tickles the bared skin of my neck. He smells of soap and expensive cologne, and I inhale the scent deeply, half-closing my eyes. I wish I hadn’t changed into the skirt; I’m sure he’ll see that being around him is making my panties damp, and  that’s just embarrassing. _Then again,_ I remind myself _, if everything goes according to plan, he’ll see that anyway_ , and a delicious shiver runs down my spine.

Christian tugs the straps tight in place and murmurs, “You’re secure. No escaping,” as he runs a long finger over my cheek. I glance at the closed door and take a deep breath. He’s right, there’s no escaping now. This is officially the point of no return. I’m a little surprised to find that I’m no longer apprehensive. Maybe he’s right about me being secure, as well. Maybe it helps that, right after saying that, he tilts my chin up and presses a chaste kiss to my lips. “I like that harness. Suits you.”

Although I don’t really understand the compliment, I blush. That he’s complimenting me is enough. I can’t wipe the smile off my face as he pulls away, sitting down and buckling himself in before he turns the engine on. I try to follow the complicated flicker of lights, the deft movements of his fingers on switches and levers, but I can’t work out what the sequences mean. Whatever it is, he clearly knows what he’s doing.

“Put your cans on,” he says, pointing to a set of headphones in front of me. As I pull them over my ears, the rotor blades whir deafeningly into life overhead. Christian is still flicking switches, his own headphones on now, looking as unconcerned as ever. “Pre-flight checks,” he informs me, seeing my bemusement. His voice sounds loud and clear in my headphones, like he’s speaking straight into my ear. It’s a much nicer sound than the thunder of the blades. “Are you ready?”

I nod, hands twining together in my lap, and swallow. He exchanges a few coded, incomprehensible phrases with the control tower, then, with a wicked grin at me, he shifts the controls and we are airborne. The floodlit rooftop drops away beneath us, taking the other lights of Portland with it, and then we are in the dark without even the moon to light our way. Christian’s face is lit by the control panel, a multicoloured dance of shadows running back to his hairline.

“Eerie, isn’t it?” he says, and I jump, laughing nervously.

“A bit,” I agree, blushing. “Do you fly like this often? In the dark?”

“Often enough,” he assures me with a smile, looking down at the controls for a moment. “Don’t worry, Anastasia. I know what I’m doing.”

“I hope so, when we’re however many hundred feet up!” It bursts out of me before I can stop it. His laugh seems to do the same, surprised out of him, open and loud. I fall in love a little with that laugh – it’s so unlike the Christian I’m coming to know, so uptight and formal. That’s the laugh of a young man, and I remember that, after all, he’s only a few years older than me.

“I do like your wit, Anastasia,” he says, when he’s done laughing. I don’t have the heart to tell him I wasn’t joking – this is my first time in a helicopter, and I think I left my stomach on the ground. Instead, I focus on him instead of the darkness, on the sharp lines of his jaw, his soft, smiling lips, the traces of stubble that cross-hatch his chin. I wonder what that stubble would feel like under my lips, and wonder whether I’ll have the chance to find out tonight.

“When you fly at night, you fly blind. You have to trust the instrumentation,” he muses after a while, breaking me out of my not-at-all-dirty daydreams.

“...Oh.” It’s all I can manage, and I think I’m doing pretty well, given the circumstances. “Um. How long’s the flight?”

“Less than an hour, with the wind in our favour.” He smiles at me. “There’s a helipad on the top of my building in Seattle. That’s where we’re heading. I should think we’ll be there in forty minutes or so.”

Forty minutes from Portland to Seattle? Wow. I can see why we’re flying. And of _course_ he has a helipad on his roof. What self-respecting obnoxious billionaire _doesn’t_. I roll my eyes, and notice his eyes narrow slightly at me when I do. That, combined with that infectious laugh, makes me wonder what on earth he can be thinking. He’s a closed book to me. And, after all...

“So we’ve got forty minutes to get to know each other a bit better?” I suggest, with a sly little smile. Now that the initial thrill’s worn off, I’m surprised to find that flying in a helicopter gets old pretty quickly, at least when all you can see out of the window is blackness. I’m much more interested in him. I hardly know anything about him.

“Oh, Anastasia.” He smiles warmly at me. “We have all night to get to know each other, if you decide that’s what you want.” I’m just starting to smile at that when his tone hardens suddenly. “Not, however, right now.”

I pout – an infantile habit, Kate says, but I don’t care. “Why?” It comes out whinier than I’d like.

“Because I said so.” His voice is positively sharp. I shrink away as much as the harness will allow, wondering what I’ve done wrong this time, and he seems to soften slightly. “I’m trying to concentrate, Anastasia. And you might not like what you found out. I’d like you to have the option of leaving when we have that conversation.”

“I was only going to ask your favourite colour,” I grumble, shoulders hunching up slightly as I slide down in my seat.

For a moment, the dim light of the control panel shows a faint smile on Christian’s face. “Red,” he says, “but if you wear that dress around me long enough, that particular shade of blue might rise in the ranking.” Then he falls back into silence. I don’t try to make conversation this time. Instead, I just fade back into my daydreaming, watching the intense expression on his face and the way his slender fingers play over the controls. Seattle is visible now, a pinprick of light on the horizon, growing by the moment. Christian points it out to me with a little smile, and I realise that I’ve seen him smile more in the last half-hour than ever before.

“You really enjoy this, don’t you?” I say softly. “Flying, I mean.” Even before I’ve finished saying it, I’m cringing slightly, worried that he’ll have the same bizarrely sharp reaction as before, but he only looks wistful.

“It requires control and concentration… how could I not love it? Though, my favorite is soaring.”

“That’s like gliding, right?”

He nods, and I close my eyes for a moment, trying to imagine what he’d look like in a glider, smiling, maybe even laughing, free in the crisp air high above the ground. It’s hard, though, because I don’t really know what a glider looks like. All that comes to mind is the Wright Brothers’ plane, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t fly one of those. I wouldn’t know, though. At the interview, he talked about _expensive hobbies_ , and gliding definitely qualifies – I’m no more familiar with gliders than with yachts or sports cars or whatever else rich people fill their time with. My hobbies are reading and, if I’m feeling _really_ adventurous, a trip to the movies. I’m way out of my depth here.

We’re above Seattle now. It slides underneath us, at once distant and breathtakingly close, the lights of the highrise buildings reaching up towards our little cabin. It doesn’t seem quite real – it’s like a movie, _Bladerunner_ or _Serenity_ or something like that. My breath catches in my throat, my attention torn away from Christian as I stare out of the window at the buildings described only by their lights, beacons in the dark.

“Quite something, isn’t it?” Christian’s voice sounds softly in my ear, over the headsets, and I can only nod dumbly. Seattle at night, from the air... yes, _quite something_ hardly covers it. I watch, spellbound, for a moment, before he says just as softly, “We’ll be there in a few minutes.” And, suddenly, the enormity of what I’m about to go through engulfs me, dwarfing the beauty of nighttime Seattle. I’m going to find out his secret, whatever it is. He’s going to _trust_ me with his secrets. In a city that’s miles from home, with a man I barely know and no way home... he’s going to tell me something huge. He thinks it will make me run screaming, and if he’s right, what then? I feel trapped, in a way I haven’t since he strapped me in; my heart beats a frantic rhythm against my ribs, as if it wants out. I think I might faint.

“Anastasia?” We’ve landed, soft as snow, on the white _Escala_ painted on the top of a skyscraper, and Christian is looking at me with obvious concern. I swallow, fingers tightening on the hem of Kate’s dress, and force a smile. _You can do this_ , I repeat over and over in my head, like a mantra. _It’s just a conversation. He likes you. You can do this. You can do this_.

“I’m fine,” I whisper, as he pulls my headphones off. The roar of the rotors is slowing to an unsteady _chop-chop-chop_ , and the lights on the dashboard have gone out. Christian is cast in floodlights from outside again, his face starkly split into light and shadow. I wet my lips and give him a slightly stronger smile as he undoes his seatbelt and reaches over to unfasten mine.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You know that, don’t you?” There’s an intensity in his eyes that I don’t quite like, almost desperate. I swallow, not at all sure that I wouldn’t do _anything_ he asked of me, no matter how much I did or didn’t want to, but manage to keep my smile on.

“Of course not,” I murmur, comfortingly. “I’d never do anything I didn’t want to, Christian.” It’s a blatant lie – witness how easily Kate coerced me into interviewing him, for example – but it seems to do the trick. He softens visibly and pulls away, easing himself out of the helicopter and helping me out after him like a true gentleman. Outside, the wind is howling across the rooftop. It tugs at my borrowed dress and tries to drag the hair tie off my ponytail, and I’m very aware that the roof is unenclosed. I’m thirty stories up, on an open rooftop, with the wind trying to drag me off my feet, and I swear I can feel the building sway under me. When Christian pulls me towards him, I’m all too happy to press myself against him, taking shelter from the wind against his strong chest, his arms around me as we walk towards the roof entrance.

Inside the elevator, it’s warm and still. Christian keeps his arm around me, though, holding me close as he punches in a security code. The insides of the elevator are mirrored, and the two of us are reflected into infinity, a thousand Ana Steeles held by a thousand Christian Greys. I wonder fancifully whether all the reflections can hear his heartbeat as I can, whether all the windblown Ana Steeles are filled with the same wild cocktail of excitement and panic and sheer joy at being held so close.

When we leave the elevator, it’s into a palatial white foyer, where the only furniture is a dark wood table with an enormous bouquet of white roses on it. Before I can take it in, he leads me on, my hand in his, into the main room. If the foyer was huge, it’s dwarfed by this place. Three walls, high and white, are hung densely with paintings; the third is plate glass, looking out over Seattle. In the corner, there’s a piano. _Of course he plays piano. Heaven forbid he leave any stereotypical stone unturned_ , I think wryly, as Christian shrugs off his coat.

“Can I take your jacket?” he asks politely. I’m still cold from the wind on the roof, but his apartment – _apartment_ really doesn’t seem a grand enough word for this place, but it’s the best I’ve got – is warm, and so is his look, heating me from the inside out; I shrug off Kate’s leather jacket and hand it to him with a smile, wrapping my arms around myself. He slings it over his arm, and for a moment, he looks ridiculously like a maitre d’. “Would you like a drink?” he asks, which only accentuates the resemblance, and I have to stifle a giggle. “I’m going to have a glass of white wine, if you’d care to join me.”

 _After last night? Are you joking?_ But there’s a wilder part of me, which must have been lurking unsuspected for the last twenty-one years, which points out that I’ll probably need a buzz to get me through this. It’s a fair point, so I nod. “Sure.”

“Pouilly Fumé okay with you?” he asks, as he crosses the room to the large kitchenette, hanging our jackets up as he goes.

“I have no idea. I don’t know anything about wine,” I confess, with a little laugh, and follow him. Like everything else in the room, the kitchen is oversized and overly opulent; the breakfast bar could seat five or six, and I can’t imagine anyone outside a restaurant needs so much space, or so many gleamingly modern cupboards. Yet Christian clearly knows his way around; he’s already plucked a bottle of wine and two decorative crystal glasses out of two different cupboards, without hesitation, and is digging in a drawer for a corkscrew. It’s so ridiculously _normal_ , that digging for utensils, that it looks bizarre in this furniture-catalogue room, like a piece of the real world transposed into a work of art. It’s like if you went to Buckingham Palace and found the Queen trying to unstick a door.

“Here.” He hands me a glass, full and surprisingly heavy. “Try it and see.”

I do as I’m told. The wine, I’m not surprised to find, is delicious – light and fresh and fragrant, just what I needed to calm my nerves. “It’s lovely,” I say truthfully, putting the glass down on the breakfast bar.

“Are you all right, Anastasia?” he asks, as he fills his own glass. “You’re very quiet, and you’re not even blushing. In fact, I think this is the palest I’ve ever seen you. Do you want to sit down?”

I nod, picking up my wine, and let myself be led to a sumptious white couch. All I can think is that suddenly I understand how overwhelmed characters like Tess Durbeyfield are when they’re shown real wealth. I’ve never seen real wealth before, not like this. Even Kate’s family look like paupers compared to this.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks. He’s lounging comfortably on the sofa beside me, his wineglass in one hand as he rests on his elbow.

“Tess of the d’Urbervilles,” I say, without thinking, and blush as I realise how stupid that must sound. “I mean... why did you give me those books?” Not much better, as segues go, but better than nothing.

He smirks. “You said you liked Hardy.”

“If I said I liked Seaworld, would you have got me a whale?”

Christian looks shocked for a moment – almost as shocked as I am to have said that out loud – and then he laughs, that low throaty laugh again. “To be honest, I got you _Tess_ because it seemed appropriate. I could hold you to some impossibly high ideal like Angel Clare or debase you completely like Alec D’Urberville.”

I want to say something appropriately witty about how neither ended well for Tess, but I remember how tense this meeting made him, and I think now probably isn’t the time. He might agree, for one thing. Instead, I say the other thing on my mind, brought forwards by that previously-unsuspected wild part of me: “If they’re the only choices, I’ll take the debasement.”

His eyes widen more than ever, and I try to hide my embarrassment in my wine, taking a long gulp. “I mean...”

“You don’t know what you’re saying, Anastasia,” he cuts across me, and I sigh.

“No, I don’t. Isn’t that why I’m here? So you can tell me?”

“Of course.” Putting his wine down on the cherrywood table, he stands up. His handsome face is creased into a frown, all good humour gone. “Would you excuse me for a moment?” Without waiting for a reply – luckily, since my tongue seems to have shrivelled up in my mouth – he vanishes through another set of doors, leaving me to sit and sip bemusedly at my wine. When he returns, he’s holding a couple of papers, which he offers to me. “A non-disclosure agreement,” he explains, and has the good grace to look a little embarrassed. “My lawyer insists.”

I take the papers. A non-disclosure agreement? Okay, maybe we’re not talking about an STI here. Whatever Christian’s secret is, it’s serious enough to warrant a lawyer. My curiosity mounts more than ever, and I have trouble focusing on the contract I’m reading. Blah blah blah, shall not share such information blah blah, cause the client professional harm, blah blah blah. I’m no lawyer, so it seems pretty likely I’ve missed something important, but I’m damned if I’m going to go and find my own lawyer to check it out before I get to see whatever Christian’s hiding.

“I’ll sign it,” I say, at last, and take the pen he proffers. When I’ve scrawled my signature on both copies, I hand him one back and fold the other into my purse, where it settles into the debris of loose change and crumpled receipts. That done, I return his pen and look up at him challengingly, clutching my wineglass like a talisman. “Go on, then. I’ve signed your paperwork. Spill.”

Something like amusement plays around the corners of his mouth, but what sticks with me is the haunted look in his eyes, like he’s dreading what comes next. He sighs and beckons me upright, the NDA hanging loosely between his long fingers. “Come, then. I’ll show you my playroom.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel the need to say at this point that the views of the characters do not imply the views of the author. There's a lot of discussion of BDSM in this chapter, and both Christian and Ana say things that are kinkshamey and just plain wrong about the culture. That's because I'm trying to stick to the spirit of the original in terms of characters, and Christian is an arse, and Ana's knowledge of BDSM comes from pop culture. Just... a reminder not to take what they say as either truth, or something I think is truth. I think that covers it.

**8**

I don’t know what I’m expecting from Christian’s “playroom”. I guess, if I’m honest, I half-expected game consoles, maybe board games, maybe a TV. Meanwhile, there’s part of me expecting a freezer full of body parts. What I definitely _wasn’t_ expecting, though, was the Marquis de Sade’s wet dream.

The playroom is red, the dark red of wine or drying blood, and soft yellow light is cast from the cornices of the room. In another room, the effect might be warm and comforting, particularly combined with the overwhelming scent of polished wood and old leather. It could be a library, or a study. But, of course, it isn’t. It’s – I glance at Christian, in mounting horror – a _playroom_.

There is a large, dark St. Andrew’s cross on the opposite wall, with leather cuffs hanging from its points. Above it, shackles and chains hang from a complex iron grid on the ceiling; racks on the walls hold whips, paddles, canes, and other implements I don’t even want to guess the name of; the huge four-poster bed which dominates the room has no bedding, only a red leather sheet and more shackles. There’s more – a Chesterfield couch, a padded bench, karabiners hanging from the ceiling – but I can’t dwell on them. My vision is swimming a little, and my knees feel weak. I’ve only vaguely heard of this kind of stuff, oblique references in books or on CSI, but I know what this is. What it’s for.

I want to say something. An accusation, maybe. A question – God knows there are enough questions floating around in my head. But, again, my tongue betrays me, my throat seeming to close up to nothing. I take a couple of unsteady steps into the room, half-expecting the door to slam shut like in a horror film, trapping me in here with the proof that Christian actually is as fucked-up as he says. Logically, I know it’s not the worst that could happen. He’s not embezzling, or kidnapping, or sacrificing virgins to Satan – in fact, he’s just taking part in some weird sexual practices. It could be worse. But when I think about what this room is for, all that floats into my mind is the more laviscious stories about the Marquis de Sade, the ones that end up with girls mad or dead. I swallow, touching my fingers to the red velvet upholstery of the couch.

“Say something.” Christian is still at the door. His voice is firm, but I can hear the shake underneath it, trying to get out. He’s scared – terrified – of what I might think, and despite myself, my heart goes out to him.

“Do you...” I swallow around the odd tightness in my throat. “Do you do this to people, or do they do it to you?”

“People?” He’s smiling, but he blinks a few times as well, clearly formulating his answer. “I do this to women. Women who want me to.”

I find it hard to imagine anyone wanting... this. I can see why someone might want to administer the pain, although I don’t like the thought, but I can’t fathom why anyone would want to experience it. I know I wouldn’t. Then I think back to my brief thought in the helicopter, that I would do anything for him, and I wonder whether that’s what it means to be with him. Do I have to do this? Do I have to pretend to like it? Is that the price I’d have to pay?

“You’re a sadist?” I clarify after a moment, just in case I’ve somehow misunderstood.

“I’m a Dominant.”

“Oh.” I blink. “Is there a difference?”

“A sadist only wants to hurt their partner. I want you to please me.” His hesitation is gone; his smile has taken on a slightly predatory air, one that makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise almost as much as it makes moisture pool between my legs. “I want you to _want_ to please me.”

My mouth’s gone dry. “I want you to want me to...” I start, realise I’m babbling, and knock back the last mouthful of my wine. It doesn’t help; my mouth is still parched, my heart still thudding too fast against my ribs. I want to please him, and that’s the truth. I want him to be happy with me. I want him to be proud of me, to trust me, and preferably to lose that air of condescension. But that last bit comes later, I guess. For now, blushing furiously in the alien confines of this opulent dungeon, I just choke out, “Please you how?”

Christian looks at me as though that’s the question he’s been waiting for. His smirk makes his eyes dance with a very different liveliness to that free-spirited laugh earlier - and yet it’s recognisably the same, the look of a man who knows what he wants and how to get it. “I have rules, and I want you to comply with them. They are for your benefit and for my pleasure. If you follow these rules to my satisfaction, I shall reward you. If you don’t, I shall punish you, and you will learn.”

Ah. I guess that explains the torture chamber. I swallow, my empty wineglass dangling from one hand, and summon up the courage to meet his eyes. “I get what that does for you, I guess. But what’s in it for me?”

“Me,” he says simply, with a little shrug.

 _Of all the arrogant..._ But the worst part is, he’s got me figured out. He is, after all, the best prospect I’m ever likely to get. He’s swept me off my feet like an Arthurian knight, rich and handsome and suave, and for all his arrogance, he’s right. Getting him is enough to sweeten the deal. He’s the first person I’ve ever wanted, the first person to show an interest me, and if I let him slip through my fingers because I’m too scared to try something new, I’ll never forgive myself. He says something, but my head’s spinning too much to take it in. Even so, I take his hand when he offers it, hardly hesitating. Kate said he was dangerous, and now I know she was right – what he’s offering, or maybe threatening, can’t possibly be safe, and yet I can’t pretend I don’t want to take him up on it. His hand is warm and strong in mine, and although the paraphenalia in his playroom terrifies me, when I think back to the times he’s set me rules and ordered me in that low purr to obey them, all I can think is that it might be worth it.

He leads me out of the playroom. Away from the warmth and citrusy smell of his dungeon, I can think a little clearer, bring myself back into the real world. Christian Grey is holding my hand, and he has just shared his deep, dark secret with me. _Focus on that, Ana. Focus on him. Not on what’s in that room._

“...me show you,” he’s saying. We’ve turned right out of the playroom, down a new corridor as dazzlingly white as the foyer – I’m starting to wonder how Christian can live here without snow-blindness – and Christian leads me calmly to the door at the end, pushing it open. The bedroom beyond is white, too, and curiously sterile. Unlike the rest of the apartment, there’s no art on the walls, and the furniture is simple, though expensive-looking; a large double bed, a couch, a desk. This room, too, has a plate-glass wall, and the view over Seattle is glorious, the lights of the city glittering all around and below us.

“This will be your room. You can decorate it how you like, have whatever you like in here.”

I turn from gaping at the view to gaping at him instead. It takes me a little while to find my voice. “ _My_ room? You’ve got to be kidding! We hardly even know each other, and you’re talking about _my room_?” My room. Upstairs in a two-storey apartment in Seattle, with the richest man I’ve ever met. My _room_. “I’m not moving in with you, Christian!”

To my aggravation, he looks amused rather than intimidated. “Not full time. Just say, Friday evening through Sunday. We have to talk about all that, negotiate. If you want to do this, that is,” he adds after a moment, less amused now, more hesitant. I am not mollified.

“Presumptuous, aren’t you?” I grumble. “What about you, anyway? You don’t sleep in here?”

“I told you, Anastasia,”  - again, that slightly chiding voice, like I’m a difficult child he’s teaching, which makes my colour rise – “I don’t sleep with anyone. Not even you. My room is downstairs. Come, you must be hungry.”

“Not really.” It’s true. With all this excitement and confusion, I’ve totally lost my appetite. I’m too confused to be hungry, and too frustrated. But, predictably, Christian doesn’t take no for an answer. He frowns at me, his eyes flashing dark and dangerous under heavy brows.

“You must eat, Anastasia,” he tells me firmly, and takes my hand. I want to make a smart response, but my brain doesn’t seem to be working. Instead, I numbly let him take my hand and follow him downstairs, back to the huge living space. I feel like I’m dangling at the edge of a precipice, needing to make a decision, and the worst part is that I know I’ll decide to jump. How can I not? All I can do is put off the inevitable, and right now, my brain’s hardly in a state even to do that. I let Christian lead me to the breakfast bar and, at his direction, sit down as he digs around in the fridge. It occurs to me that anyone less naive than me would probably have seen this coming, just from how bossy he is – if there was ever anybody you’d expect to get off on power, it’s Christian Grey.

“You’ve signed the NDA,” he tells me, as he sets a plate of cheese and grapes down on the worktop and starts cutting up a baguette, “so you can ask me anything you want, and I’ll answer.”

That doesn’t help my nervousness. If anything, it makes it worse; there are so many questions floating around in my head right now, and I’m sure that whichever I choose to ask will be the wrong one. At the same time, I know that staying silent is the worst of all possible worlds. I’m cornered, and it’s a miracle that my voice comes out anything like as steady as it does. “You mentioned paperwork. Is the NDA all of it, or...?”

Christian shakes his head, placing a clean white plate in front of me. “There’s a contract I’d like you to sign, to say what we will and won’t do. I need to know your limits, and you need to know mine. This is consensual, Anastasia.”

My instinct is to ask whether he thinks all consensual relationships need contracts, but then my mind goes back to the room upstairs, and I remember that this isn’t going to be like other relationships. “And if I don’t want to do this?” I ask, testing the waters.

“I hope you like cheese,” he says, incongruously, putting the cheeseboard in front of me. “Mrs Jones, my housekeeper, has left this for supper.” I continue to stare at him, though, doing my best to imitate Kate’s gimlet glare, although I suspect on me it looks more constipated than anything else. Eventually, he relents, although he’s clearly unwilling to answer. “If you don’t want to do this, Anastasia, that’s fine.”

“But we won’t have any other sort of relationship?”

“No.”

“Why?” I’m aware that I sound a little whiny. I don’t care. I think I’ve earned the right to whine a little, after this ordeal.

“This is the only sort of relationship I’m interested in.”

 _Yeah? Well, how about what I’m interested in? Did you think about that?_ But of course he didn’t, and doesn’t have to. As far as he’s concerned, I must be completely disposable in the grand scheme of things. I can’t imagine he’s short of girls who’ll do whatever he wants, dungeon or no dungeon. He’s rich, handsome, and extremely eligible, Mr Rochester with a St Andrew’s cross instead of a mad wife in the attic. And I’m just a plain Jane, who he could replace in a moment if I decided to move on. The thought hurts. I swallow, reaching for a grape, and turn it over and over in my fingers without eating it. It’s a distraction, that’s all. I’m really, really not hungry.

“The rules you mentioned,” I say slowly, starting to peel the grape for something to do with my hands, and avoiding his eyes. “What are they?”

“I have them written down. We’ll go through them once we’ve eaten.”

“Yeah, about that...” I look down at the half-peeled grape between my fingers, sighing. “Christian, I’m really not hungry. Can we go over the paperwork now, and maybe later I’ll be able to...”

“No,” he cuts across me, sharply. “You will eat. Now. Would you like another glass of wine?”

I open my mouth to complain, and then close it again. The look on his face is not that of someone amenable to reason. Instead, sagging slightly in my seat, I push my empty wineglass towards him in sullen silence and help myself to a slice of bread and a little piece of a blue cheese I don’t recognise. When I force myself to take a bite, my hunger reasserts itself sharply – lunch was a long time ago – and I wolf down another two slices of bread and cheese, refusing to listen to his low laughter.

“You said you do this with women who want you to,” I say at last, as I’m deciding on which cheese to try next. “There are a lot of them?” He nods. “Then why me? Why not someone who’s into... all this?”

“I told you, Anastasia.” His voice is back to that soft purr, carressing my name as though it’s something precious. “There’s something about you that draws me to you, like a moth to a flame. I can’t help it. I want you very badly, especially now, when you’re biting your lip again.”

Am I? Crap. I hadn’t even noticed. Yet I don’t stop chewing on my lip now that he’s pointed it out. He wants me. It’s not news, of course, but it still feels miraculous. He wants _me_. Mousy, clumsy, plain Anastasia Steele. Not Kate, not some supermodel or Mensa member, _me_. He thinks _I’m_ the flame he’s drawn to, when the truth is, I’m the moth, pulled towards him even knowing my wings are going to burn, but _he wants me_. His gaze is dark and heavy, and I look up to meet his eyes, swallowing. I wonder how many women he’s wanted like this, and how many he’s had. Are we talking Darcy or Mr Rochester here, aloof or rakish? “How many?” I ask aloud, after a moment, and I’m aware that my own voice has taken on a foreign huskiness. “How many women? Did you tell them all this stuff as well, about how special they are?”

His eyebrows rise, and he looks almost hurt for a moment. “Fifteen, Anastasia. Fifteen women, and I didn’t tell them that at all. I’m not in the habit of lying.”

I’m not at all sure how to feel about that. Fifteen women isn’t as many as I’d feared, but it still seems like a lot. As for what he told them... I want to be glad that I really do seem to be special, but I can’t help wondering about the women who came before me. If he’s telling the truth, they must have been prepared to go through all this without even the benefit of knowing he cared for them. I can’t imagine what kind of person would be desperate enough for that, and yet I have a horrible feeling that if it was all he was offering, I’d still take it.

“Have you ever hurt anyone?” My fourth slice of bread is on my plate, untouched and forgotten, and all my attention is on him. “I mean, obviously you have,” I hasten to add, remembering the torture chamber upstairs, “but, I mean, badly?”

His mouth quirks up into a wry smile. “Not badly, no.”

“And you want to hurt me?” I take a long gulp of wine, fortifying myself, before I meet his eyes.

“I’ll punish you when you require it, and, yes, it will hurt.” He looks at me intensely, his manicured fingers steepled. I notice that for all his nagging me to eat, he’s hardly touched the food himself. “Finish your bread, Anastasia, and let’s discuss this in my study. I want to show you something.”

I shovel the bread down without tasting it, wash it down with the wine, and stand up with frankly ungraceful haste to follow him to his study. Christian sits on the large mahogany desk, looking like he’s modelling for GQ, and indicates for me to sit in the plush leather swivel chair before handing me another sheaf of papers. God, this man has a hard-on for paperwork. It’s weird.

“These are the rules. They may be subject to change. They form part of the contract, which you can also have. Read these rules and let’s discuss.” He looks perfectly at ease. It’s unfair, because I’m struggling so much to cope with this huge influx of information. I feel like screaming _Goddammit, I just wanted to make love to you!_ , but of course that’s not an option, so instead I look down at the paper. I half-expect him to tell me that there’ll be a pop quiz at the end of the lesson.

When I’ve skimmed the rules, I have to go back and reread them from the start, not sure I believe what my eyes are telling me. He wasn’t joking about liking control – his rules cover everything from how much sleep I’m allowed to get (seven hours minimum, when I’m not around him) to how much I should eat (three meals a day, no snacking between meals) to how I’m supposed to act (complete with some bullshit about my behaviour being ‘a direct reflection on the Dominant’). And that’s not even starting on the clothing rules, the rules about not having sex with anyone else, the one that says I have to have a personal trainer and start a fitness regime...

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I say out loud, after the third read-through. “I’m not letting you buy my clothes for me! And I don’t have _time_ to exercise four days a week, plus I don’t _want_ to! And you don’t get to pick what _beauty salon_ I go to, for Christ’s sake!”

He purses his lips, his eyebrows drawing together. “You’re welcome to turn it down,” he says, in a tone of voice that says that he’ll be hurt if I do, and sighs. “However, these are the rules. I’m not an easy person to be with, Anastasia. I did warn you.”

“This is supposed to be a negotiation,” I remind him, sighing more than a little myself. I don’t want to turn him down, especially not with that almost childish look of hope that he had for a moment there. It would be like kicking a puppy. True, a very rich and powerful puppy, but still. “Look, let’s talk about this. Clothes. This says you’re giving me a budget for clothes. Why don’t you just tell me what you want me to get, and I’ll buy it out of my savings? Otherwise, it feels like you’re paying me for sex, and that’s just... it’s not who I am.”

“I want to buy you things, Anastasia.” He’s doing that talking-to-a-difficult-child voice again, like I’m stupid or slow and he just has to tell me the same thing louder and slower. “Some of the things I’ll want you to wear, to functions and the like, will be outside the range of your salary, even when you do get a job.”

I think about telling him I can just sponge off Kate, but it occurs to me that that would be almost as hypocritical as it sounds. Instead, I just sigh. “Fine. But nothing too expensive, and I pick my own beauty salon. I’m not a doll for you to dress up.”

“Acceptable.” He looks amused, which is aggravating, because I’m deadly serious. “As for exercise, trust me, you will need it. I require strength, suppleness, and stamina from my submissives.”

“Four times a week, though?” There’s an edge of a whine to my voice, but for now, only an edge. “I told you, I don’t have time. Twice a week, tops.”

“An hour twice a week,” he suggests, with a glint in his eye that says he enjoys this kind of bargaining, “and half an hour the other two times.”

“Three hours, three days. Otherwise...” It takes a real effort to make the ultimatum, but I know I need all my chips on the table. “Otherwise, no deal.”

He sighs, but his eyes are dancing. “All right. Are you sure you don’t want to intern at my company? You’re a tough negotiator.”

I look at him flatly. “ _Publishing_ ,” I remind him. “That’s what I want to do. Not logistics. What’s this stuff about hard limits?”

“Things we won’t do, boundaries we won’t cross. We need to specify those in our agreement. Here are mine.” He produces another piece of paper with a flourish, and, with mounting dread, I read it over. What’s on there seems sensible enough – nothing with fire, blood, medical instruments, breath control, or excrement; nothing involving children or animals; nothing that will leave permanent marks. What freaks me out is that he needs to specify those things. Surely there aren’t people who _want_ to do those kinds of things? I shudder. This whole thing is way out of my depth.

“Is there anything you’d like to add?” he asks, almost gently, when I’ve been staring at the list for what seems like an age.

“I don’t know,” I confess, putting the paper down next to him on the desk and looking up at him. “I don’t know what the options are, what needs saying...”

“Well, when you’ve had sex, was there anything that you didn’t like doing?” It’s kind enough, which is part of the reason I’m so embarrassed by the question. I duck my head, blushing and gnawing on my lip, my hands twisting in my lap. Christian sighs. “You can tell me, Anastasia. We have to be honest with each other or this isn’t going to work.” When I still don’t answer, his voice hardens. “Tell me.”

“Well, I’ve kind of... I’ve sort of never _had_ sex?” It’s embarrassing to admit, particularly to someone as experienced as he clearly is, but I can’t lie to him, not about this. He’ll know I’m a virgin if we have sex anyway, I’m pretty sure. His dead silence in response, though, is worrying, and when I peek up at him, he’s frozen in clear horror, his face pale.

“Never?” he whispers, and, feeling guilty without understanding exactly why, I shake my head. “You’re a _virgin_?”

“Well, I’m only twenty-one,” I mumble, defensive despite myself. “And I guess I just wasn’t popular, and guys didn’t seem that important, and...”

He’s pacing now, both hands in his hair, and his initial horror seems to have given way to something even worse: anger. For a moment, he turns and glares at me, and I catch a glimpse of something terrifyingly raw in his look which makes me snap my mouth closed, cringing back in my seat. I’m very aware, again, of being in his home, in his city, with no way out. And he looks so _angry_. “Why the fuck didn’t you _tell_ me?”

I stare at my hands, feeling my eyes prickle with tears. He sounds genuinely hurt, genuinely enraged, but I don’t understand what’s so wrong about what I did. I feel small and foolish, reverted back to ten years old as he stalks to and fro. The study is huge, but he seems to fill it, expanding with an aura of sheer affrontery. “It didn’t exactly come up.” My voice is barely audible, even to me. I swallow and try again, not daring to look up at him. “I mean, you didn’t ask, and I barely know you...”

“Well, you know a lot more about me now!” His voice is taut, thrumming with unconcealed rage and – am I imagining it? – even an edge of panic. “I knew you were experienced, but a _virgin_?” He says _virgin_ like it’s a filthy word, hurling it out with such venom that I flinch. If he called me a filthy cunt, he could hardly sound more hateful. “Hell, Ana, I just showed you... God forgive me. Have you ever even been _kissed_ by anyone else?”

“Yes.” Well, technically it’s true. I didn’t enjoy the kiss with Mark much, but it was still a _kiss_ , and if it cools Christian off a bit...

“And a nice young man hasn’t swept you off your feet? I just don’t understand. You’re twenty-one, you’re beautiful...” It doesn’t sound like a compliment, though. It sounds like an accusation, like he thinks I’ve stayed a virgin just to spite him. I don’t even care that he’s deluded enough to think I’m beautiful. This is too hard to wrap my head around. “How have you avoided sex? Tell me, please.”

“I don’t _know_!” My voice rises a little, and I’m ashamed to admit just how panicked I am. “I told you, guys just haven’t... I’m not popular or pretty or out there, and I never went looking, and _why are you so angry with me_?”

At that, the wind seems to go out of him. When I glance up at him, my breath catching in my throat, he’s standing in the middle of the room, and his forehead’s creased into such a deep frown that he looks like an old man, tired and worn-down. “I’m not angry at you,” he says, and the rage has gone out of his voice, leaving it almost gentle. Somehow, that’s scarier. “I’m angry at myself. I just assumed...” His hands go up into his hair again, raking it back from his face. “Do you want to go?”

“Do you...” I swallow. Only I could mess up this badly without trying. “Do you want me to go?”

“No,” he admits softly, frowning slightly and checking the clock above the desk. “I like your company. And it’s late, and you’re biting your lip again.”

“Sorry.” I stop immediately, my fingers bunching tightly in my skirt, and screw my eyes closed. But he wants me here. Whatever that rage was, it’s passed, and he wants me here.

“Don’t apologise. But it makes me want to bite it too. Hard.” Christian’s voice has lowered to a husky purr, which makes me squirm in my seat. How can he say that and still act as though it’s my fault I’m attracted to him? How am I supposed to read what he’s thinking, when he’s capable of such sudden changes of mood? “Come,” he says, holding his hand out to me, and I have no idea what he means, whether he wants to take me home or take me to bed or what.

“Huh?” I manage, after a moment. _Smooth, Ana. Really smooth._

“We’re going to rectify the situation, right now.”

“What situation?” I’m thoroughly bemused. It’s probably not sexy, but it’s hard to pull myself together right now.

Something like a smirk, but thinner and sadder, crosses Christian’s face. “Your situation, Anastasia. I’m going to make love to you now. That is... if you want me to.” Again, that strange sense of vulnerability I’ve gotten from him before, which would make it impossible to forgive myself if I say no. And I don’t want to say no. I want this, a deeper and more visceral want than I’ve ever experienced before.

“But what about the rules?” I find myself saying, as if from a distance. “The contract, the exercise, all that stuff...”

Christian shakes his head firmly, pulling me upright and winding my ponytail around his hand as he drags me in close. “Forget that. I want you, Anastasia, and you want me, too. Why else would you be here, discussing punishment and hard limits so calmly?” He kisses me, roughly, and when he pulls away, his eyes are dark as jet, heavy with lust. “Just for tonight, Anastasia, _fuck_ the rules.”


	9. Chapter 9

Christian Grey’s bedroom has the bleached look of driftwood on a beach. The walls are white, the furnishings a pale blue, the huge four-poster bed made of a dry grey wood. My mind seems to be electrified by the prospect of what’s about to happen, and the tiniest details jump out at me; the sudden cool tingle of air on my hand as his slides out from mine, the little clink as he puts his watch down on the dresser, the piney smell of air freshener. I stare at him, bug-eyed and out of place in this designer room, with this designer man. Slowly, I become aware that I’m trembling, as much from want as from fear. This is it. The first time a guy sees me naked, the first time a guy takes me... I’m terrified. At the same time, though, I know this is a moment I’ll treasure forever.

He’s taken off his jacket, and sits on the edge of the bed to pull off his socks and shoes. He fits in just as absolutely as I stick out; this could be a spread in a glossy magazine, the handsome celebrity perched in his perfect designer room, with that dark come-hither look in his eyes. Almost unconsciously, I dart my tongue out to wet my kiss-swollen lips, just as he looks up at me.

“I don’t suppose you’re on the Pill?”

I shake my head. I’ve never really thought about it, not when my chances of needing contraception were zero. Now, though... but he’s already reaching into the drawer by his bed to pull out a condom packet. “Be prepared,” he murmurs, looking up at me with smouldering intensity. “Do you want the blinds closed?”

I look up at the floor-to-ceiling window, the lights of Seattle bright around us. “Can... can anyone see us?” I mumble, through lips that feel numb, and push my legs together against the moisture I can feel soaking through my underwear. This time, it’s Christian’s turn to shake his head, smiling. “Then I don’t mind.”

“Good,” he murmurs, standing up. His bare feet pad silently across the deep white carpet as he strides towards me, looking down at me as his long fingers glide over my bare upper arms. As his fingertips hook under the thick straps of my borrowed dress, he steps even closer, until his breath ruffles the stray hairs hanging across my forehead. “Do you have any idea how much I want you, Anastasia? All the things I could do to you?” He trails off with a soft sigh, one hand trailing up the side of my neck so lightly I can barely feel it. My breath catches in my throat, my heart seeming to stop; we are caught in this moment, still fully dressed, the charge between us so strong it could power cities. Part of me wants to hold onto this moment, this gentleness, this unprecedented closeness. At the same time, I want nothing more than for him to throw me down on the bed and have his way with me. My body aches for him, but I can’t move, can only stand hypnotised as his smooth white fingers trail up to cup my chin.

It isn’t until he kisses me, slow but firm as his tongue runs gently over my parted lips, that my paralysis is broken, and I step a little closer, my own tongue hesitantly questing out to mimic him, tracing the line of his movie-star teeth, tasting the sweet sharpness of wine overlaying the heat of his mouth. With a little groan in the back of his throat, he suddenly throws his arms around my shoulders, crushing me up against him as my own arms come up to anchor me around his neck.

“Please...” I whisper hoarsely, breaking the kiss for a split second, then dive back into it with reckless abandon, going up on my tiptoes to capture his mouth. Even on tiptoe, though, I’m not tall enough to keep the kiss when he lifts his head away from me, his grey eyes seeming to flash in the soft light.

“Please?” he murmurs, caressing my cheek with one hand. “Please _what_ , Miss Steele?”

Without meaning to, I let out a plaintive little moue from the back of my throat, already missing his mouth on mine. I don’t know what I was pleading for, don’t even know what I want – I just know that I _need_. I’m consumed by need, burning hot and powerful in me, and I know it’s been building for a long, long time. What I don’t know is how to put that into words, how to make him understand that I wasn’t begging for anything, I was only begging, desperate for I don’t know what.

He seems to read it in my eyes, though, because he smiles that slow, predatory smile again, fingers sliding around the back of my neck as he brings his mouth inches from my ear, kissing the point where my neck joins my shoulder. “I know, Ana,” he whispers, kissing a little higher up my neck this time, then tugging on my earlobe with his teeth so that I gasp and squirm slightly. “I know. I want you too.” His fingers are dancing down my spine, a smooth percussion of touch, slipping towards the zipper of my dress. I hold my breath as his touch vanishes from my skin, and I feel the slow tug of him undoing my dress. Kate’s slinky blue party dress falls open against my back with soft, silken heaviness, a gentle shift of weight. I expect him to pull it off me, but he’s in no hurry. His hand flattens against my bared back, and he pulls me in for another kiss, tugging my hair out of its ponytail as he does so.

“I like brunettes,” he murmurs, pulling back a little, his hand slipping gently through my conditioned hair. “No, I like _you_. And, Anastasia, I want to see what you look like underneath that pretty dress.”

I try to say something in response, but my tongue seems to have stuck to the roof of my mouth. Instead, I just nod vigorously, loose hair tossing, my eyes wide. _Please..._ I repeat, in my mind, my eyes fixed on him. I continue to stare at him, at the contours of his face and his surprisingly slender neck, as he slides the dress slowly, inch by inch, up my body. He keeps his eyes fixed on my face throughout, his lips parted just a little, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, almost as if he’s as nervous as I am.

The fabric is staticky, and clings to my hair as he pulls it over my head, leaving me dishevelled despite all the effort Kate put into getting my hair perfect. I don’t care. Maybe that’s a betrayal of Kate’s hard work, but I don’t care. What I care about is the reaction on Christian’s face as he pulls away and gets his first real look at me. Thank God, I think, that I’m wearing good underwear – the same perfectly-fitting lace set he bought for me. Even so, there’s a moment when I am hideously aware of my own imperfection; my small breasts, the softness of my belly, the scar on my hip where I fell off my bicycle when I was seven. Then I realise that his expression is one of wonder, not disgust, and in a shining moment, that hatred of my own body falls away. He looks at me like I’m beautiful, and it _makes_ me beautiful. That’s worth more than his money, or his looks, or his charisma. He makes me beautiful, and _God_ , I want him.

“God, I want you.” He echoes my thoughts, looking me up and down with something like reverence. His erection is visible through his jeans, tenting the denim. Knowing I have that effect on him is intoxicating, too, but not as intoxicating as his kiss, when he drags me close again, my breasts pushed hard against his muscular chest, his erection hard and firm against my hip. His hand slides down to cup my ass. I flinch slightly, knowing how damp the fabric of my panties feels, but even when his fingertips graze the back end of the wet patch, his response isn’t scorn but a low, knowing laugh. “Fuck, Anastasia... I see you want me too.”

I blush, and grab blindly at his strong arms, leaning up to kiss him back hard. He picks me up easily, making me laugh in delighted surprise into his mouth. Locked together, we move towards the bed, but he doesn’t put me down on it as I expect. Instead, he lowers me gently back onto my feet, and shocks me even more by dropping to his knees in a graceful, fluid movement. He looks like a knight before his damsel, kneeling in front of me like that, and I stifle a nervous, excited little giggle at the thought.

“You’re wearing the underwear Taylor bought you,” he observes, slipping his fingers under the elastic of my delicate lace panties as he takes hold of my hips. “I like that.”

I blush, and am just opening my mouth to say something when his mouth presses against the curve of my hipbone; all conversation flies out of my head, replaced by panting desire. A fine line of nips and licks from hip to hip, Christian’s nose pressed to my skin as he looks up at me from under improbably long lashes, and I must be dead or dreaming, because there’s no way this is really happening. I am not standing in Christian Grey’s bedroom, half-naked, panting and wanting, while the man himself kneels in front of me and lowers his head to nuzzle the inside of my thigh as he pulls down my pantyhose. This can’t be happening. It’s too good to be true.

And yet, it _feels_ true. I don’t have any bank of experience to call on, no knowledge to make up the wild, building rush of sensation that is swirling in my head as his tongue runs a long trail up the inside of my leg, his nose pressing for a moment against the wet fabric of my underwear as he turns his head to attend to the other leg. I’m having trouble staying standing, but it’s not because of the kitten heels Kate talked me into wearing; I never understood until now how literally people could mean it when they talked about being weak at the knees. Even with his strong hands on my hips, and my hand steadying me against his shoulder, it’s a struggle to balance. I’m both relieved and oddly disappointed when he reaches up to tug the duvet off the bed and guide me back onto it, but he only stops his ministations long enough to pull off my shoes and pantyhose, then goes back to kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin inside my thighs until I moan and gasp and collapse back against the mattress.

“Show me how you pleasure yourself,” he murmurs, sliding sinuously up to lie beside me, his hand on my belly. I reach for him with another little moue, wanting him to go back to what he was doing, too lost in sensation to understand what he’s asking, but he catches my wrist softly and only places a kiss over the vein of my wrist. “Don’t be coy, Anastasia. Show me, please.”

“Show you what?” I hardly recognise my own voice; it’s low and raw, somewhere between a moan and a sigh.

“How do you make yourself come?” Leaning over me, he runs his tongue along my clavicle, ending with a sharp little nip on the soft hollow of my throat. “I want to see.”

I moan, arching against his mouth, and shake my head. I’m aware that I should know how to do this, that I’m disrupting the flow of things, but I can’t pretend that I know what I’m doing. “I don’t,” I admit, in an apologetic whisper.

Christian’s eyebrows rise, but there’s none of the horror from earlier, only a slow smile as he straddles me. “Well,” he murmurs huskily, “let’s see what we can do about that.” His fingernails, short and manicured, run lightly down the side of my neck and make me shiver, and then his palm is cupping my breast through the bra, a steady, warm pressure. His other hand slides down to his fly, and he unbuttons his jeans deftly, his eyes still fixed on mine. “You’re beautiful, Anastasia,” he murmurs, his thumb running over the top of my breast, and he presses a soft kiss to my throat. I make a half-hearted attempt to shift, to catch his lips and return the kiss, but in the end, he seems happy to do all the work, and I’m more than happy to let him.

His hand slides off my breast, and I hear a complaining little whine; it takes me a moment to realise I was the one who made it. It’s hard to keep together when he’s kissing down my belly, towards the trail of hair that leads into the hot dampness between my legs, his strong hands tugging my knees apart. His breath is cold on my crotch, making me shiver deliciously as the moisture evaporates, and I let out another unconscious little sound, somewhere between pleasure and surprise. He doesn’t stop, though, his lips trailing over the sodden lace of my panties, the trim of hair escaping the edges, the smoothly oversensitive skin of my inner thighs. Stifling my moans as best I can, I still can’t help squirming under his ministrations, torn between the instinctive embarrassment of intimacy and the sheer wonder of this new feeling. His breath is both hot and cold on the wet trail of his open-mouthed kisses, and even over the air-freshener smell, I can now smell myself, the heady scent of sex. Sweat is starting to bead between my breasts as I struggle to keep some semblance of composure.

When he pulls away, standing between my legs as he slips off his jeans, I look up at him through unfocused eyes. I am thrown, uncontrolled, and in the slightly hazy edge my arousal gives to everything, he looks like an angel. I whisper his name through parted lips, reaching up for him, and he lowers himself onto me; his linen shirt creases against my naked belly, and the coarse hair of his bare legs tickles my freshly-shaved calves. Again, languidly, his hand cups my breast, but this time he hooks a finger under the fabric of the bra, tugging it down so that my breast is pushed up, the nipple standing hard and sensitive, on display for him. Shifting his weight to his other elbow, he repeats the operation with the other hand, the other breast. Although I’m free to move, I’m conscious of the pressure, of the restraint. I feel sluttish, naked and displayed for him, bound by my own bra. To my shock, the feeling is the hottest thing yet.

Sitting up, his legs locked to either side of my hips and his erection pressing lightly against the base of my belly, Christian looks down at me with a little smile. When he reaches out to pinch one nipple between thumb and forefinger, making me gasp and arch at the sudden almost-pain, it’s with the detached air of the businessman, as though I’m a product whose quality he has to check. That thought, impersonal and dehumanising, shouldn’t be hot, but _God_ , it is.

“Stay still,” he murmurs in a low whisper, rolling my hard nipple between his fingers and leaning down so that his breath wafts hot against my face. “I want to see if I can make you come like this.” Then it’s his mouth that’s on my other breast, sucking lightly, his teeth just barely scraping the tingling skin of my areola, his tongue describing tight circles around the taut nub of my nipple. I know he told me to stay still, but I can’t help shivering under that gentle, charged touch. When I do, he pinches my right nipple harder, at the same time biting down briefly on the left, so that I let out a little groan of agonised pleasure.

“I said stay _still_.” He raises his head to admonish me, his hand taking the place of his mouth, and looks down at me. I whimper quietly, and he smiles, laying a remarkably gentle kiss on the curve of my jawline. His breath is a warm tickle against my ear. “I’m sorry, Anastasia. I’m already forgetting it’s your first time. Just relax, and let go.” His fingers play deftly over my nipples, now leaving the faintest trace of sensation, now pressing hard, pinching and twisting. He watches my face, and I’m aware that the faces I’m pulling must look ridiculous, but I don’t care. It’s a vague thought, at the back of my mind, and more important is the strange sense of building pressure in me. It isn’t unpleasant, but it’s strong, like the smell of my own sweat and sex, like the feel of his pianist’s hands on me. I close my eyes, mouth dry from panting, and tip my head back as he keeps playing with my breasts. Lips again, fingers, lips, teeth... it blurs into a long trail of sensation, but the building arousal in me seems to reach a plateau, and no matter how he tells me to relax, to let it happen, it’s going nowhere, neither peaking nor fading. I’m floating in the tide of my own wild need, but it’s taking me nowhere, and I’m happy enough just to stay there, gloriously sensitive to every touch, the sheets under my thighs now as soaked as my panties, as I squirm and moan and gasp.

Eventually, it’s Christian who gives up, with a little groan. I have no idea how much time’s passed, but my nipples ache and tingle and I still long for more. There are no words to the complaint I moan as he pulls away, but he only lets out another of those low laughs. In the grip of my own near-orgasm, I struggle to raise my head and look at him, tired from the effort of arousal. Nobody ever told me sex was such hard work when you don’t even _do_ anything.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, when he sees me reach for him. “I’m not done yet, Anastasia. Would you like me to fuck you?”

 _Please... oh, God, please..._ But all that comes out is a strangled little moan, and it takes a second for me to pull myself together enough to whisper hoarsely, “Yes. Christian, please, yes, fuck me...”

That gets another laugh, heavy and thick with lust, and he reaches down, yanking my dripping panties to my ankles in one smooth movement. “Knees up,” he orders, guiding my calves so that my thighs press against my bare, coldly damp breasts, my pussy bared to the air. The movement stirs the drops of moisture lurking in my pubic hair, and the chill of it only sends a heightened awareness of my position to me. I’m naked, or as good as, my legs spread and my cunt trailing moisture down the crack of my ass, open and empty and longing for him. Better still, he can _see_ all this. Nothing is hidden from him. Everything is shown, everything is his, and it is _glorious_.

He seems to think so too, by the little sigh of near-reverence he lets out. His hand releases my right leg, and I feel – although I can’t see from this angle – his index finger trace over my soaked and swollen labia. He lets out a low whistle. “Fuck, Anastasia. Look at you.”

 _Less looking! More fucking!_ I scream inside my head, moaning aloud. Every nerve there is awake and crying out for attention, and his touch was teasingly brief; I find myself pushing my hips up towards him, but there’s nothing there. He’s let go of my other leg, too, moving into view as he tugs off his boxer briefs and reaches for a condom. I watch his every move, my tongue darting out to lick my lips, my feet dropping back onto the bed as he rolls the condom onto his cock. Then he’s gone from sight again, pushing my knees back up to my chest and yanking the panties off my ankles, where they’ve been hobbling me. He pulls me towards him by my hips, rucking the sheet under me and pressing the damp spot I’ve made to the small of my back. “Ready, Anastasia?”

I still want him – _need_ him – but now the moment’s come, I’m terrified. Part of me wants to scramble away, yank my clothes on, run for the door. But isn’t this what I came for, after all? It’s just that his cock seems so big compared to the hole it has to fit through, and everyone says losing your virginity hurts, and most of all, I can’t go back. What if it’s wrong? What if he’s not the right man? What if this is all a huge mistake, what if I’ll look back on it with horror for the rest of my life, what if, what if, what if?

“Ready,” I whisper, though, and hardly notice I’ve said it. My mouth knows what I want, I guess, even if my brain hasn’t caught up yet.

There’s a tightness when he pushes in, at the boundary of pain but overwhelmed by the _yesyesyes_ of my body, and that’s all. Well, not all. There’s no real pain, but it’s definitely not _all_. I can feel my inner walls stretching, the delicious fullness, the heat of him inside me. He moves slowly, and my body responds to the unfamiliar touch with a jolt of satisfaction. That plateau of pleasure turns back into a climb, slow but inexorable, as he moves inside me. My hips press up to him; my rhythm doesn’t match his, but I don’t care. I’m panting, gasping, as though he’s putting me through my paces instead of doing all the work with surprising slowness and gentleness. Still, it’s not enough. I push my hips up more insistently, groaning for more, faster, please, Christian, _please_.

He obliges, speeding up, moving faster and harder against me. I can hear the wet sound of him pistoning into me, feel the rising hysteria of my orgasm building, and I’m tossing in the sheets like a wild thing, sweating and moaning and wanton, my hair sticking to my face, my fingers tightening on the mattress. It’s a struggle to keep my legs up; they’re shaking, trembling, trying to tense. My toes curl, my head flies back, my mouth opens in a silent scream...

...and then it’s over, with shocking anticlimax. I’ve heard such wonderful things about orgasm that I feel cheated. How can that glorious feeling end so undramatically? But just like that, without a peak, my arousal is gone, and it seems to have taken my strength with it. I collapse back against the mattress, my legs falling splayed across the mattress, boneless and drained. Christian is still fucking me, and it’s not an unpleasant feeling at all, but it no longer fills me with that desperate, animal wanting.

He comes a moment later, still inside me. I can’t feel it, but through bleary, half-closed eyes, I see the way he arches into me, the sudden tension of his face and body, the tendons standing out taut in his neck. When he comes, he makes a low, raw noise of sheer pleasure, and my arousal spikes again for a moment. _I did that. Me._

Lying over me, he kisses me tenderly as he pulls out. I wince at the unfamiliar feeling of wet latex, slick over the hypersensitive skin of my pussy.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, his face a picture of concern.

It’s hard to stifle a yawn and a laugh at the same time. I fail at both, smiling up at him with my eyes half-closed. “You’re asking if you hurt me? _You_ , Mr de Sade?”

“The irony is not lost on me,” he assures me with a sardonic smile of his own. “Seriously, are you okay?”

I nod sleepily, reaching down to readjust my bra – it was sexy in the moment, but now the pressure on my breasts is starting to feel restrictive – and shift out from under him as he raises himself up to remove the condom. It takes me a moment to register what I’m seeing out of the corner of my eye, and I sit up sharply, drowsy afterglow blown away as suddenly as it arrived. “Shit! I’m bleeding!”

He laughs laconically, touching my bare arm. “Of course you are.”

“But my period’s not for...” I start, and then realise why he’s so laid-back about it. Of course I’m bleeding. Of course. But the knowledge that it’s just because I was a virgin doesn’t completely wipe away the panic, or the embarrassment. It doesn’t hurt, but I’m bleeding, and not just a few drops, either; this is full-on Red Sea, all over his pristine sheets. “I’ll ruin your bed!”

“The housekeeper will deal with it.” He reaches up, pulling me back down beside him. “Does it hurt?”

I shake my head, although I’m honestly not sure. I seem to have lost touch with my body altogether, in a kind of delicious numbness.

“Then don’t worry about it,” he advises, and kisses my nose. He’s still wearing his linen shirt, but he’s otherwise gloriously naked, his cock now soft and pliant against my thigh. “Get some rest, Anastasia.”

I’m going to tell him that I can’t possibly rest, not after that kind of excitement, not while I’m still bloody and naked. Before I can form the words, though, I’m already drifting into sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

I sleep deeply, and dream that I’m swimming. The water is greyscale, like an old movie, and only I’m in colour. There’s  music playing; when I squint through the water, I can see Christian, picked out in greyscale, at the piano, his long fingers dancing over the keys. I swim towards him, but he never gets closer, although he doesn’t move visibly. Instead, the water between us grows more and more turbulent, gusting like the currents are gale-force winds, and then they _are_ winds, and I’m flying above the water, watching the dim figure under the water and trying to warn him that the storm’s coming, but it’s hard to focus on the clouds on the horizon over the gentle rhythm of his playing, and I don’t want to interrupt him, and...

I wake up alone. My breathing is steady, but for a moment I’m disoriented and almost panic, especially as the music’s still playing, blurring the line between dreaming and reality. There’s a gentle not-quite-ache between my legs, and an unpleasant stickiness which is all too familiar; blood dried in my pubic hair and between my thighs. It takes a little more effort than usual to lift my left leg, which I think must have been glued to the sheet by my blood. Gross.

Groping in the dim light, I manage to find my way to the bathroom after an accidental detour into Christian’s walk-in closet. The music continues down the hall, but right now my priority is getting rid of the red splotches on my thighs. Blinking owlishly in the light as I make it into the bathroom and close the door, I hook my leg up onto one of the sinks – there are two, with a huge mirror hanging between them – and grab a handful of toilet paper, wetting  it under the tap. As I wipe the blood off my skin, I squint at myself in the mirror. I look like someone else, someone who _belongs_ in a near-stranger’s bed with the blood from losing her virginity smeared down her legs. Maybe it’s just the wild mess my hair’s been rucked into, or the sleep-bleariness of my eyes, but I don’t like it. That pimple’s still on my forehead, as well, so I can now guarantee that losing your virginity to the man of your dreams doesn’t actually turn you into a flawlessly beautiful siren. Teenage ideals lied to me. Go figure.

I hesitate for a moment before using Christian’s towel to dry my legs, but it isn’t as though I’m bleeding any more, and if he can deal with pools of my blood on his sheet, I’m sure he can cope with a few spots on his towel. Feeling a little better, if still kind of bleary and half-asleep, I leave the bathroom and follow the piano music which still trails down the corridor. The tune’s changed. I think I recognise it, but I can’t place it.

Christian sits at the piano, eerily similar to how I pictured him in my dream, except that instead of a suit he’s wearing nothing but grey pyjama pants. The room is dark, except for the lamp by the piano, so that he’s spotlighted in a pool of soft golden light. I hesitate in the  doorway,  watching him. His eyes are closed, his mouth set into a soft line that nonetheless suggests a certain bitterness, his bronze hair as dishevelled as mine. He’s like a man possessed, lost in a trance, and I can’t bear to interrupt. My heart in my mouth, his music soft in the air, I turn and pad back to bed before he can see me, too shy to intervene. I lie down on the other side of the bed, away from the dark stain of my own blood, but this time, sleep isn’t so quick to come.

When I wake up the next time, I’m no longer alone. Christian lies next to me, fast asleep, curled foetally with his face to me. Relaxed in sleep, his face looks soft and youthful, the hard lines of his controlling nature gone from his features. His hair covers half his face, and his  clasped hands are drawn up to his parted lips, as if he’s praying. I wonder how many other people have seen him like this, and decide it doesn’t matter. This moment, right now... this moment is mine, and so is he, for now. The odd melancholy on his face when he was sitting at the piano is gone; the faintest trace of a smile dances around the corners of his mouth. He’s drooled on the pillow, and somehow, that strikes me as almost the most beautiful thing about him. It grounds him, makes him human, not some kind of impossible Eros.

I could lie there, watching him sleep, forever, except that before too long, my stomach gives out a loud growl and I remember all I’ve eaten since lunch yesterday was some bread and cheese. And then there was all that exercise... With a little laugh, I climb out of bed into the bright May sunshine, shrugging on Christian’s shirt – since I’m on his side of the bed, it’s the nearest excuse for clothing – and head out to the kitchen. I’ve found some eggs and bacon in the fridge, and I’m whistling merrily as I look for flour to make us some pancakes, when suddenly I remember the duty I’ve forgotten. _Kate! Oh, god, she’s going to be so mad at me_.

Leaving the breakfast ingredients on the sideboard, I go on the hunt for my purse. When I finally find it in Christian’s study and take out my phone, I’m ashamed to find that there are four messages from Kate, demanding with increasing stress to know if I’m okay. Oops. Rather guiltily, I dial her up as I head back to the kitchen, but there’s no reply, either on her cell or on the house phone. I leave her an appropriately grovelling message to let her know I’m alive and in one piece, but I wish she’d picked up. Then I wouldn’t have to keep feeling bad about it – she could be grumpy at me for a bit, then forgive me, and then all would be well. Now I have to wait until I’m home for her to accept my apology.

My guilty mood doesn’t last too long, though. After all, I’ve done pretty well for myself so far. I’m in Christian Grey’s apartment, making breakfast for us both after the wonderful lovemaking of the night before – well, _fucking_ , according to him, but whatever – and all’s well in the world. Before long, I’m dancing around the kitchen, headphones in my ears and hair scraped back into a messy ponytail, singing along to Amy Studt. I’ve got bacon under the grill and pancakes keeping warm on the range, and I’m whisking eggs to make an omelette for Christian when, still dancing, I turn and see him watching me over the breakfast bar. My singing falls flat and dead, and I almost drop the mixing bowl, going bright red. He’s stubbly and unkempt, still in the t-shirt he slept in, and he’s regarding me with undisguised amusement on his face.

“How long have you been watching?” I demand, with aggression born out of serious embarrassment, ripping out my earphones and putting the eggs back on the sideboard. My face feels hot enough to take the place of the frying pan, and my heart’s thudding somewhere in my throat.

“Oh, a while.” He smirks. Dammit, as though this wasn’t embarrassing enough already, he has to be so unapologetically amused by it all. “You’re very energetic this morning, Miss Steele.”

“I slept well,” I mumble, all my defensiveness and energy whooshing out of me. “Are you hungry?”

“Very,” he says, in a voice heavy with significance. I choose to ignore the bedroom eyes he’s giving me, although it’s a wrench; I can’t imagine they’re serious, when I’m all red and blotchy and have just finished totally humiliating myself. Again.

Clearing my throat, I turn away from him and go back to whisking. “How do you like your eggs?”

“Thoroughly whisked and beaten.” Again, it’s obviously designed as an innuendo. Again, red-faced and irritable, I ignore the implication. _They’re going to be thoroughly whisked and all over your head if you don’t stop laughing at me, buddy_ , I think grumpily, dumping the egg in a pan and leaning down to turn the bacon under the grill. _And I bet you’re staring at my ass right now, aren’t you? Smug bastard_.

I straighten up and, right in my ear, he says “You don’t have to stop dancing on my account, you know, Miss Steele.” He’s laughing at me openly, and irritating though it is, there’s something about that youthfully playful smile which makes it hard to be angry at him. Hard, but not impossible.

“Watch it, Christian,” I warn him, raising a finger near his face. “Keep mocking me, see how long it is before I hit you with that pan.”

“Feisty.” He pulls me close, laughing, and kisses me hard. “But I know you wouldn’t. Watch the eggs, you’ll burn them. I’ll get the placemats. Would you like some tea?”

Despite myself, I’m smiling, the worst of my embarrassment gone. He’s very good, apparently, at getting me to let my guard down. “If you’ve got some, sure.” As he smiles back and goes to get a couple of slate placemats out of a drawer, I say over my shoulder, “How long have you been playing the piano? You were very good.”

I’m half-hoping to throw him off balance, but it doesn’t work. He seems completely unsurprised. “You heard me, then?” Running a hand back through his hair, he lays out the placemats and shrugs. “I started when I was six.”

“Wow.” I try to imagine six-year-old Christian Grey, but my mind draws a blank. Even after the melancholy music, even after seeing him so curled-up and small-looking in bed this morning, I can’t picture him as a child. He’s simply too big to fit into such a small image; too strong-willed, too impossibly confident to have ever been young. I’m aware of how stupid that is even as I think it, but still... six-year-old Christian. I wonder whether there are any photographs. I’d like to fill the gap in my imagination. It doesn’t seem appropriate to ask now, though. Instead, I just finish making the breakfast, warming plates and turning the omelette.

When it’s ready, I turn to find him waiting for me to sit, standing with his hands behind his back like a Victorian gentleman. “Miss Steele,” he says, prim as any good fictional butler, and I have to resist the urge to drop into a mocking curtsey.

“Mr Grey,” I say instead, straight-faced, and try to match his primness as I climb onto one of the high stools. Unfortunately, I’m still stiff and achy from the night before, and I wince a little, throwing off the effect.

“Just how sore are you?” he asks as he sits down, the gentlemanly attitude gone in favour of apparent concern.

I shrug. “Not too bad. Just a bit stiff, I guess. Why, did you want to apologise for that?”

There’s a wicked, sharp edge to his smile. “Miss Steele,” he says gravely, “I’m afraid I can’t apologise, because I’m not sorry at all. I was just wondering whether to continue your basic training.”

I’m not sure whether it’s the words themselves, what they suggest, or just the low, throaty tone in which he says them, but something clenches and unclenches inside me, and I stare down at my tea and orange juice, trying to pretend I’m not rubbing my legs together in a way that must look totally ridiculous. “Oh,” is all I can manage. “Um.”

“Eat, Anastasia.” He smiles at me, not unkindly. There is a slightly patronising edge to it, though, which I don’t like much. It’s that, as much as or even more than my arousal, which kills my appetite. Being the awkward person I am, I sulkily put my knife and fork down. I’m not going to eat just because he tells me to. He’s just going to have to get used to the idea that I don’t follow all his orders to the letter. I haven’t signed his contract yet, after all.

_And you might never get a chance to,_ a voice at the back of my mind whispers, _if you keep antagonizing him_. I don’t want to listen to that inner voice, but it has a point; it isn’t as though there can be any shortage of girls who _will_ do everything he asks. And, really, isn’t he worth it? I compromise, not eating – my pride won’t let me – but instead taking a long swig of tea, so I’m not so obviously disobeying him.

“What kind of basic training did you have in mind?” I ask, trying and failing to keep my voice steady.

“Well, as you’re sore, I thought we could stick to oral skills.”

I do an honest-to-God spittake. Hot tea sprays over the polished surface of the breakfast bar, and I choke loudly, doubling over. Luckily, Christian’s there to stroke my shoulders and help me drink some orange juice, and after a moment, I catch my breath, still red-faced.

“That’s if you want to stay,” he says, as if nothing’s happened.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so close to two spittakes in a row. In the end, I manage to just smile at him, a little shakily, my face hot. “Uh... I guess I’d like to stay for today? I mean, that is, I’d like to. But I have to work tomorrow.”

“What time do you have to be at work tomorrow?”

“Nine.”

“I’ll get you to work by nine tomorrow.”

I frown. Is he asking me to stay another night? Seriously? “I don’t think... I mean, I have to go home tonight. I don’t have spare clothes or a toothbrush or anything, and Kate will worry...”

“Stop biting your lip,” he says, gently but firmly, and reaches out to pull my chin down and free my lip from my teeth. “It’s distracting. All the more so when I know you’re not wearing anything under that shirt. As for clothes and toothbrushes, we can get you some here.”

“No, I...” I trail off. He’s hard to argue with, particularly when his disapproval is visible like a big black cloud over his head. And, again, what if arguing with him screws this whole impossible, wonderful situation up? I try to calm myself down and channel Kate’s self-confident attitude. He can’t be _that_ angry about it, after all. Right? “I really do need to be home tonight. And I don’t have money for clothes right now.”

“I’ll buy them,” he says, as if it’s self-evident. “But all right. Tonight. Now, eat your breakfast.”

I stare mutinously down at my plate, and prod at the cooling pancakes. “What’s your obsession with me eating?”

“I don’t like to see wasted food.” His voice is sharp, pained. His eyes, though,  flash with undisguised frustration. “ _Eat_ , Anastasia. I won’t tell you again.”

Gulping, I do as I’m told. He’s intimidating, and I don’t want to push my luck. Besides, stubbornness aside, I really _am_ hungry. I wolf the food down, trying to maintain some kind of dignity but failing as usual, while he watches me with satisfaction. When both our plates are clear, he stands up. “You cooked. I’ll clear. And then, we’ll go and take a bath.”

My mouth dries at the thought of all that might entail, but I’m spared the need to answer by my phone ringing. With an apologetic look at Christian, I turn away, heading towards the bay doors of the balcony as I answer. “Hey.”

“Ana!” Kate’s angry, unsurprisingly. She must just have gotten my message. “You couldn’t have texted last night? Or _something_? You promised!”

“I know, I know.” I take a deep breath, trying to placate her as best I can, and glance back at Christian. “Things just ran away with me, that’s all.”

“You’re okay, though?”

“Course I am,” I hasten to assure her, and just like that, the anger disappears from her voice. Instead, it’s replaced by a smug, knowing kind of triumph.

“Okay, spill!”

“What?”

“Well, was he good? He didn’t hurt you, did he? What’s he look like naked? Come on, Ana, I want the scoop!”

I finally realise what she’s driving at, and go crimson. “Kate!” I hiss down the phone, glancing back at Christian, and lower my voice. “I’m not talking about _that_! Not over the phone! Look, I’ll be home this evening. I’ll talk to you then, all right? Bye!” I hang up before she can use her Kavanagh wiles to get any more out of me, especially since I’ve just remembered the paperwork I signed last night. I’ll have to reread the NDA, to remind myself how much I’m allowed to tell her. I’m  allowed to tell her I signed the stupid thing, at least, right? Sighing, I turn my phone to silent and turn back to the kitchen, where Christian is finishing the washing-up.

“You know the NDA I signed last night...” I start, warily. “Um, does that cover _everything_?”

He turns to me, dishcloth in his hands, and raises his eyebrows. “Why?”

How to phrase this? I’m aware that I’m chewing my lip, but he can damn well deal with it. I’m too busy trying to think of a tactful way to approach this. “Well, I... you know, Kate’s going to want to know what happened tonight. And I’ll have some questions, about... you know. Sex stuff.”

“You can ask me.”

My fingers twist together; I stare down at them, cheeks flushed. “I mean, questions I want to ask a girl.” _And someone who doesn’t treat me like I’m five._ “Just mechanics stuff, don’t worry! I won’t mention... you know...”

“I know.” He smiles, a sweet and remarkably mild expression compared to his sharp tone. It’s brief, though, and then he’s harsh again. “But, Anastasia, your roommate’s making the beast with two backs with my brother. I’d really rather you didn’t.”

I bristle a little on Kate’s behalf. I know she can be discreet, even if she doesn’t seem like it. And does he really not have the balls to talk to his own family about this stuff, if it’s so important to him? Elliot didn’t seem like the shy type, after all. I can’t imagine he’d be that freaked out. I guess Christian knows better than I do, though, so I just nod meekly. “Okay. Um, weren’t we going to have a bath?”

It’s a pretty desperate distraction technique, but it works; his eyes light up, and he nods, taking my hand and leading me to the bathroom. He pours bath oil under the faucet as the bath fills, and the water foams, the steam smelling sweetly of jasmine. I watch him from the doorway as he peels off his t-shirt, revealing those subtly toned muscles. Again, I’m overwhelmed by the contrast between his beauty and my... well, and me. It makes me shyer than  ever, and although I know he’s seen everything I have to show, I wrap my arms around myself, my sole concession to undressing being to take the iPod out of my pocket and put it by the sink. My legs rub against each other, not out of arousal now, but embarrassment, as if by drawing in on myself I’m somehow making myself less scrawny, less unfit, more like Kate or one of those coy models in commercials. Let’s be real, that’s probably the sort of person he’s more used to. Not for the first time, I wonder just what the hell I’m doing here, pretending like I’m remotely in his league.

“Miss Steele,” he says, breaking into my thoughts, and takes my hand. I’m already following his guidance towards the bath when I remember I’m still wearing his shirt, and try to free my hand so I can get undressed. His hand’s tight in mine, though, and he’s strong; I tug, but in vain.

“I just want to get my – I mean, your shirt off,” I explain, and he laughs, low in his throat, and kisses me. He doesn’t let go of my hand, but he draws me closer, his free hand coming up to the collar of my shirt.

“I decide when you do that,” he tells me. His voice is deceptively gentle, but I can hear the steel underneath, and, for some reason I don’t quite understand, I find it incredibly hot. “Get in the bath, Anastasia. And stop biting that lip. I know from experience that it’s delicious, but that’s no excuse.”

That seems a bit harsh, but I’m on my best behaviour just in case he changes his mind about wanting me, so I refrain from making some wonderfully cutting remark. The fact that I couldn’t think of one is incidental. Obediently releasing my lip, I climb into the bathtub. The water is hot, but not scalding, and it slips over my recently-waxed legs in a way  that’s almost sensuous – or maybe that’s just the intense look he’s giving me as he leans over and starts to unbutton the shirt. And then it’s off, and I’m standing naked in front of him, trembling with the effort of not covering myself. Almost unconsciously, I bite down on my lip again, fidgeting, my eyes dropping to stare down at my protruding hipbones and knobbly knees, my too-small breasts and the hair on my nipples, at the unsightly roll of soft flesh at the base of my belly.

“Hey.” Christian’s voice is sharp; when I peek up at him, he takes my chin in one hand, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Don’t look down like you’re ashamed, Anastasia. You’re a very beautiful woman, and it’s a pleasure to stand here and look at you.  And didn’t I just tell you not to bite your lip?” He licks his own lips, a quick dart of a movement which makes me long to follow his tongue with my own, and strokes his free hand over my hair. “You can sit down now.”

The water, foamy and gentle, closes over me  as I do as I’m told. It’s a blessing on my aching breasts and thighs, and I close my eyes as  I submerge myself, my hair floating around me. When I surface a moment later, dripping and  feeling thoroughly refreshed already, Christian is watching me with a smug smile. I try to cover my blush with a quip; “What, aren’t you gonna stop staring and join me?”

I don’t know why I’m still surprised when he says, still smirking, “You know, Miss Steele, I do believe I will.”


	11. Chapter 11

Ordering me to move forwards, Christian strips off his pyjama bottoms and slips into the bath behind me. I can feel his breath cooling the back of my neck,  his half-hard cock pressing against the base of my back as he reaches around me to open my legs. He licks the curve of my ear, his feet hooking around my ankles as he reaches past me for the body wash on the shelf. “You smell so good, Anastasia,” he whispers, his voice loud in my ear.

What the hell am I supposed to say to that? _You too_? Part of me – a very cheeky part  which I’m firmly refusing to give any leverage to – wants to point out that he sounds like a psycho. The thing is, although it _is_ a bit of a weird thing to say, coming from him I can almost find it endearing. Of course, I know it’s a lie. I’m in a bath, for Christ’s sake, and what  doesn’t smell of bath oils has to smell of night-old sweat. Still, I guess it’s a cute sentiment. To add to that, there’s the fact that I’m naked in a bath with the most beautiful man  I’ve ever met, which was always going to give me rose-tinted glasses. “Thanks,” I manage to choke out, leaning my head back against him with a little smile.

He smiles back down at me, kissing my forehead, and lathers body wash between his hands. Fingers slick with soap close around my shoulders, and he begins something halfway between a massage and a wash, strong thumbs teasing against the taut muscles of my neck. I close my eyes, breathing in deeply and enjoying his ministrations. After all the stress of the last few days, it’s bliss to feel like I can relax, and even the tension of living up to his expectations starts to fade. As his hands slide down to smooth, open-palmed, over my tender breasts, I let out a little moue of contentment, shifting back a little against him. The pressure of his erection  against my back is increasing by the moment as he spreads  suds across my ribs and belly, then back up  over my breasts – I arch against him, but he doesn’t linger – to wash my arms and sides. My relaxation is giving way to excitement when he pauses for a moment, then returns to work, this time with something rough between my legs which turns out, when I open one eye, to be a washcloth. Through it, his fingers knead and rub against my swollen labia, flicking against my clit. He scrubs across my crotch and thighs, hard enough that it’s just at the brink of pain, while he presses kisses against my temple.

“Christian...” I murmur, almost unconsciously, and push up against the cloth, longing for more. The water sloshes around us, splashing up onto the tiled wall, as I writhe against the restraint of his arms and legs. My legs, still spread against the sides of the bath, try to stiffen, but his ankles are still hooked around mine, and I can’t move. I groan, biting down hard  on my lip as his teeth graze my earlobe, and my fists clench and  unclench. “Oh, God... please...”

Contrary asshole that he is, he takes that as his cue to stop. My eyes flutter open, and I turn my head as much as I can to glare at him before remembering I’m on my best behaviour. It’s too late, though; he’s seen my frustration, that much is clear by the laughter in his voice. “I think you’re clean enough now.”

I pout. Even on my best behaviour, I can’t help it. That was just _cruel_. “But... I mean, I was just...”

“I’ve got other plans for you. Turn around.” He cuts across me, his voice cool and level in sharp contrast to my flustered stuttering. “I need washing, too.”

My face feels hot. I can’t believe I was dense enough not to see that coming. He’s being an ass, but, to be honest, at this point I shouldn’t expect anything _but_ him being an ass. I just wish I understood why him being an ass  makes me horny instead of angry. Still, I do as I’m told, the foamy water lapping around me as I turn to kneel, facing him, in the water. His smirk’s wider than ever, his grey eyes dark with want, and his erection, clasped in one slim hand, is large enough to break the waterline. I swallow, licking my lips at the sight of him, and all  my libido-scrambled mind can pull together is _holy_ fuck _, he’s hot_.

I meet his eyes, and risk a little smile, trying not to pant. I don’t know if it’s the steaming bath or the steaming hunk of manflesh in front of me, but I feel extremely warm all of a sudden. He smiles back, perfect teeth shining, and raises one eyebrow.

“I want you to become well acquainted, on first name terms if you will, with my favorite and most cherished part of my body. I’m very attached to this.”

Really, _first name terms_? I almost choke on my giggles, spluttering into both hands. Who would have thought Christian Grey had a sense of humour? I’m aware that my laugh is far from sexy, what with the way it comes  out half-snort and half-bray, but _favorite and most cherished part_ , for God’s sake! Businessman, sex god, and now comedian – who’d have thought one man could have so many talents?

It’s only when he storms out of the bath, and  I see between giggles that his expression has turned from sensual to thunderous, that I realise he wasn’t joking. Oops. I scramble to my feet in a tidal wave of soapy bathwater and try to explain that I thought he was kidding, but the laughter’s got a pretty strong hold on me now and all that comes out is a squeak, quickly overtaken by another fit of the giggles as I slip in on the slick bathtub and almost fall on my ass. Water splashes over the edge of the bath and pools on the tiled floor around his bare feet. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he stalks out, leaving me to stand there while my hysterical laughter subsides.

Okay. Guess he doesn’t have a sense of humour, after all. The thought almost makes me giggle again, but I clamp down on it. The embarrassment and guilt is starting to drown out my amusement; my horniness, meanwhile, is totally gone. I fucked up. I had a chance to make it work with the most eligible bachelor in the US of A, and I blew it.That thought kills the last of my laughter, and, sober now, I climb out of the bath. Wringing out  my long hair, I wrap myself in a towel and hurry after Christian.

He’s sitting on the bed in his room, half-dressed already and grumpily buttoning up his shirt. When I timidly knock on the open door, he fixes me with a glare. “What do you want?”

I blanch under that ferocious look. “I... Christian, listen, I’m sorry if I upset you. I really did think you were joking.” From the still-darkening expression on his face, I don’t think that’s helping, but I push on anyway. “I wasn’t laughing at you. Really, I wasn’t. It was  just...” Goddammit, here come the giggles again. “... _Well-acquainted_ with your dick? It’s been in me, Christian, I think we’re pretty well-acquainted already.” And there I go again. Open mouth, insert foot, as my mom says.

“If you were mine,” he snaps, “I would take you over my knee for being so rude. Spank you until you learned better than to be so rude. I’ve got half a mind to do it anyway, right here and now.”

Okay, Anastasia. Deep breath. He’s offering you an out here – you can still make it up to him, if you’ve got the guts. “Okay,” I say, in a small voice, trying to look as demure and apologetic as possible.

“What?” Now he sounds confused, and a little petulant, like he wanted an argument and now it’s been taken away. I’m not sure if I’m imagining the dawning shock in his face.

I clear my throat. “You can, um. You can spank me. If it would help.”

The thundercloud disappears from above Christian’s head, and there’s a sudden glint in his eyes. Standing up, he takes a few steps towards me; I look up at him from under my eyelashes as he reaches out and brushes his fingertips over my burning cheeks. “You don’t know what you’re suggesting, Anastasia.”

“Well, I’ll never know if I don’t try, will I?” I give him a hopeful little smile. “I mean, if you’re still interested in... if you still want me to be yours, I guess I have to start sooner or later, don’t I, Christian?”

To my immense surprise, he leans down and presses a rough, almost painfully desperate kiss to my lips. I can feel emotion in that kiss that seems totally inconsistent with his staid appearance. “Brave girl,” he says fervently. “Oh, you brave, brave girl.” Then he steps away, snatching my towel off me in the same move, and a steely look slams down across his face like a mask. I swallow reflexively, looking up into his dark eyes, as he puts his hands on his hips and regards me. “If you’re going to apologise, you’d better do it properly,” he says, in a low voice. “Get down on your knees, bitch, and beg me for forgiveness.”

I swallow. His words are remarkably harsh, and they cut me to the quick, but at the same time, I can see something darkly promising in his eyes. Biting my lip, I carefully get onto my hands and knees on  the deep carpet, looking up at him from under my dripping hair. “Please,  Christian...” I manage, before he slaps me hard across the face. It knocks me back, burning like fire on my wet skin, and I cry out in pain and surprise.

“I told you not to bite your lip, Anastasia,” he informs me, his voice deceptively mellow. “And you will address me as Sir. Understood?”

“Y-yes... I mean, yes, Sir.” I raise my hand disbelievingly to my cheek. God, if he’s going to hit me this hard when he spanks me, I’m not sure I’m up with this. _If I tell him to stop, will he?_ I wonder, and I can feel the panic rising in me. What have I gotten myself into?

“Good girl. Now, I think you were begging me?”

I have no idea what he wants from me, or what to say. Clearing my throat, I struggle to dredge words up from my suddenly blank mind. “Um...  please, Sir, forgive me?” He quirks his eyebrow, but says nothing. Emboldened, I press on: “Please,  I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I won’t do it again, Sir, I promise...”

“Hm.” Christian strokes his chin, looking  down at me. Through his light linen pants, I can see his erection starting to build again. “I guess I could let you get  away with that. But that’s not what you want,  is it?”

 _Yes_ , I think. “No, Sir,” I say. It’s clear from his expression that that’s what he wants to hear; when I say it, a smirk spreads across his full lips, and he beckons  me upright.

“I’m a believer in good attitude, Miss Steele. You will learn that. Now, I am going to put you over my knee, and I am going to spank you, and when I’m done, you will thank me, politely. Am I clear?”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and watch him as he crosses back to the bed, sitting down and beckoning me. My cheek still stings a little, and I can imagine all too  well how much this is going to hurt; my knees feel weak as I move to join him. With one hand, he pulls me down across his lap and pins me there, his left arm heavy across my shoulders. My hair masks my view, even if I could raise my head enough to look at him, and the cold breeze over my damply naked  back and ass makes me feel horribly, wonderfully exposed. I seem to have forgotten to breathe.

“This is for laughing at me,” he says softly, in my ear, and then his free hand comes down in a stinging blow on my right buttock. I squirm, letting out a muffled little groan against my arm. For a moment, his hand carresses the sore patch it’s left, and then it comes down again, hard, to leave a matching pain on the other cheek. “That’s for leaving me hanging.” Again, this time at the crease where my thigh joins my ass, and I gasp in pain. “For getting water all over my floor.” Again. “For not apologising straight away.” Yet again. I grit my teeth, tears springing to my eyes. “You think this is a joke, Miss Steele? You think I’m funny?”

“No, Sir!” I start to say, but his hand comes down again, and I degenerate into a strangled little squeak of pain. He hits me once more, evening things out, and then  wraps my hair around his hand and pulls my head back.

“You won’t laugh at  me like that again, will you?” he says softly, looking into my eyes.

I lick my dry lips, shaking my head as much as I can with my hair tightly pulled. “No, Sir,” I whimper quietly, and am relieved to see a little smile on his face.

“Good girl,” he says, leaning down to kiss my tearstained cheek. “Well done.” Letting go of my hair, he helps me back to my feet. My ass feels like it’s on fire, and movement stings, but I smile at  him. He’s forgiven me, and, after all, that’s what I was after. Besides, something about that was... I don’t want to admit it, but it was surprisingly hot.

“Thank you, Sir,” I say, and realise a little too late that I’m biting my lip again. Luckily, he seems to be all angered out, and all the lip-biting gets me is a glimmer of amusement.

“I think we both deserve something a little more fun,” he says, standing up and pulling me in for a kiss. “Get on the bed, Anastasia.”

My heart thudding, I do as I’m told. I close my eyes, but by straining to listen, I can hear the soft thud of Christian’s clothes on the floor as he undresses, then the pad of his footsteps quiet on the carpet. My ass aches, the bedclothes rough against the newly-tender skin, and I can feel the water from my hair soaking into the sheets around me. My heart is racing, and I can hear the rush of my own blood in my ears, but as I settle into the crumpled bedding, I’m smiling. Half-opening my eyes again, I watch Christian from under my lashes as he goes to his closet and gets out a grey silk tie.

“Hands together,” he orders, “like you’re praying.” And it’s true that when I clasp my hands, biting the inside of my cheek as he wraps the cool silk around my wrists, it kind of feels like praying – a prayer for this to be a one-off feeling and, at the same time, a prayer of thanksgiving for this glorious heat and brutality and need. My tongue darts out to wet my lips, and then his mouth’s on mine as he pushes me back onto the bed, pressing passionate kisses to my lips, my throat, my breasts. “Keep your hands there, understand?” he orders me, lifting my bound wrists above my head, and for a moment he makes eye contact.

“Yes, Sir,” I breathe. He smiles and returns, breathless, to laying bites and kisses along my clavicle. For a moment, he sits up, and I get an excellent view of his delicately toned torso and hard, red cock before he bends down again to yank my legs apart.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his fingertips tracing the inside of my thigh as he raises his head. He’s flushed, eyes bright, his smile decidedly predatory. “Such a sweet little thing, dripping for me. You enjoyed that, didn’t you, baby?” Before I can respond, though, he ducks his head again, and... _God!_ His tongue presses into me, lapping up the moisture that’s seeping out into my already-damp pubic hair, his long nose pressed against the mound of my crotch while he sucks and kisses at the sensitive skin. He hasn’t shaved yet, and his light stubble grazes against the tight, stinging skin of my ass. I look down, my vision narrowed to the wide V between my breasts, to see his touseled red hair tossing as he gets to work. It catches the light, gold and copper, and I long to touch it, to grab his head and  shove him harder against me. My back arches away from the bed, my toes curling, and I let out a low, involutary moan of animal want.

“Fuck, Christian...” My voice sounds so entirely unlike me, so raw and wanton, that I let out a low laugh which turns to a stifled little scream of pleasure as he nips my clitoris lightly. My thighs tighten around his shoulders, and, giving in to temptation, I awkwardly lower my bound hands to grip his hair.

He stops as soon as my fingers brush his scalp, and pulls away, his full lips glistening with my fluids. “Don’t move your hands,” he says sternly, “or we shall have to start all over again.”

“But...” I begin. His steady glare, grey eyes dark and unyielding, put a stop to my argument before it’s even half-formed. I shut up, meekly raising my hands back above my head.

Shifting to lie alongside me, Christian laughs deep in his throat. “Good girl,” he says in my ear, nipping the lobe, and slides his hand over my breasts, pinching and rolling one hard nipple. “You’re so eager. I can work with this.” His hand slides down over my sweat-slicked belly, to the damp mess of hair between my legs, which he tweaks. “I like this. Perhaps we’ll keep this.”

It hadn’t occurred to me that we _wouldn’t_ keep that, and I’m just opening my mouth to say so when, without any warning, he pushes his first two fingers into me, scissoring them so that my words turn into a wild groan halfway between brain and mouth. That gets another laugh, and he does it again, his thumb stroking over my clit. With a gasp, I arch off the bed, my eyes rolling up into my head, my mouth gaping open. “Please...” I hiss, lost in need, my whole body prickling with a want I don’t have words for.

His eyebrows raise. “What was that, Miss Steele?” he asks, mockingly, pushing a third finger in so that it rubs hard against the rough, sensitive skin. “Did you want something?”

All I can manage is a wordless little sob. In the corner of my blurred, cloistered vision, I see him smile, and his fingers are pulled out as fast as they went in. I whine, biting down on my lip, and my pussy clenches in sudden emptiness. Over the heavy sound of my own panting, I hear the rip of foil, and a moment later, he’s on top of me. The tip of his erection, slick with the lubricated rubber, presses against my labia, and I open for him, pushing gladly up against him as he eases into me. It’s a blissful relief from that gaping emptiness, stretching me almost, but not quite, to the point of pain.

“How’s this?” he breathes into my ear, and presses in slowly. I can’t manage words, only a nod and a inarticulate sound like _nngh_.  He seems to take it in the spirit it’s meant, though, because he speeds up, taking me with him, a wild, primal whirl of sensation and need and satiation... the world closes to him and me, and the damp thud of his hips into mine, the way his lips are parted and his eyes half-closed, the feeling of his breath hot against my neck while my legs tremble and tighten spastically around him...

“Come for me, Anastasia,” he orders, through a thick slur of breathless, shaking movement. “Come for me, baby!” And I obey, arching against him, bent arms still held above my head as my eyes close, my toes curl, and my head tips back. I don’t shout so much as murmur my release, but it’s no less powerful for that - and this time, I _feel_ the release, a peak which lifts me into ecstasy for a brief, shining moment before it’s gone. He pounds into me for a moment more, then cries out, his whole body stiffening, and collapses against me.

My eyes half-closed and my breathing still ragged, I lie under him, cautiously bringing my tied wrists down to wrap my arms around his shoulders. Now I really understand what people mean when they talk about an afterglow. We’re both sweaty, mussed, and red-faced, and my throat is raw from gasping. I’ve never felt so spent, or so well-used. I’m tired, I’m sore, and his weight on me is hot and sticky. I’ve never felt so contented in my life.


	12. Chapter 12

“Come on, spill!” Kate accosted me the moment I walked in the door, and now she shoves a cup of tea in my hands and drags me over to the couch, all but bouncing off the walls. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you all day, at least not after Elliot left. I mean, I’m glad you’re okay and not chopped up in a psycho’s freezer, but that’s not getting you off the hook, okay? I want all the gory details. How many times? Was he any good? Did you come?”

I duck my head, going scarlet, and try to hide behind my hair even as I laugh. No matter how long I live with Kate, I will never get over how upfront she is, or how utterly unembarrassable. “ _Kate_!”

“What?” She spreads her hands, hopping onto the couch with one log leg tucked under her. “I didn’t think we spent an hour yesterday getting you ready so you could talk about football with him. You totally went there to get some, and by the look of you, you got what you went for. Come on, Ana, you owe me some gossip.” Jesus Christ, now she’s bringing out the big guns; Kate’s puppy-dog eyes, framed by those long lashes, could conquer nations. “I’m just looking out for my friend. Making sure you’re not shacking up with a total waste of space.” She frowns, and a dark look comes into her eyes for her eyes for a moment. “Even if he is a waste of space who buys you fancy lingerie and first-edition Hardy.”

“Don’t say that like it’s a bad thing,” I mumble, sipping at my weak tea, and try not to examine my own feelings on the matter too closely, because I find I’m worryingly okay with it. “Look, it was good, all right? I came. Twice. And we went out to dinner on the way back, and we talked, and  we’re seeing each other again on Wednesday.” I jut my chin, daring Kate to keep up that dark look and sardonic attitude about him, but she doesn’t. Instead, she smiles, touching my arm gently.

“I’m glad you had a good time, Ana,” she says, with remarkable tenderness and obvious relief, before relaxing back into her normal Kavanagh self. “But you don’t think that’s all I want to know, right? I mean, _twice_? On your first time? Jesus, Ana, do you even know how impressive that is? None of the girls I've talked to before came their first time. I mean, you know Renisha from Medieval Poetry? She's been fucking since she was fifteen, and before I ate her out she'd never come before.”

“Spare me!” I exclaim, screwing up my face in mock-disgust.

“Prude.” Kate laughs good-naturedly, nudging me with her elbow. “All I’m saying is, he might be a bit of a creep...”

“ _Kate_!”

“...but at least he knows how to treat you right,” she continues, as if I hadn’t interrupted, serene as ever. “Hey, you’re my best friend. I’ve got to look out for you, right? Babe in  the woods like you. You sore?”

“Um...” I’m not sure how to answer that. I want to tell her that, yes, I’m sore. My nipples are still tender, and I’m pretty sure my ass is bruised. On the other hand, I’m not meant to talk about the weird stuff, and which of that stuff was weird? I know the spanking was, but what about the rest? _Should_ I be sore? “Kind of stiff, I guess.”

“Tell me about it.” Kate pulls a face, and I breathe relief surreptitiously into my tea. She doesn’t seem to see anything amiss with that answer. “Elliot – you know, Christian’s brother? – he was good and all, but I’ll be walking funny for days.”

I see my chance to change the subject, and pounce on it. “You like him, then? Are you seeing him again?”

She shrugs. “He offered to help us out with the move. Him and Levi, so, you know. I can smell the testosterone already.” An odd little half-smile, and she runs her hand back through her hair. “Maybe I shouldn’t have let him come and help. But Levi’s got to get over me some  time, right?”

Personally, that sounds like one of the meaner things she’s said this week, but I’m too busy being relieved that she’s not onto me to worry about Levi. Besides, I’m tired and sticky, and I’ve finished my tea. Putting the cup aside, I pat her on the shoulder. “Maybe you should talk to him?” I suggest. “Levi, I mean, not Elliot.”

She shrugs, but I can already tell she’s not going to. Whatever. I might like Levi well enough, but it’s not my problem, and I’ve got bigger fish to fry. I make my excuses, and am heading to my room to read the papers Christian gave me, when she turns over her shoulder, suddenly frowning.

“Ana? Thinking of boys with crushes, Jose called. Something about Mike Lebowitz and the bar on Friday night.”

My heart  sinks. I pause midstep, then turn back. “How the hell does Jose know about that?”

“Oh, okay. So it did  happen?” The slight frown has turned into a look of real upset, like I’ve never seen on Kate before. She looks like she’s been slapped. “And  you didn’t tell me?”

“I guess I forgot,” I mumble. “With Christian and everything. It just didn’t seem that important, I guess.”

Her mouth hardens, and for a moment I’m afraid she’s going to shout at me. Instead, she puts her coffee aside and strides over to me, tugging me into a fiercely tight hug. “Ana,” she says against my shoulder, her voice measured and barely shaking, “of course it’s fucking important. Some bastard tried to... look, Ana, honestly, I’m worried about you. That’s not okay. That shit sticks, you know? Are you really all right?”

I’m going to tell her that of course I am, I’m fine. But when I open my mouth, what comes out is a thin little whine, and then, to my surprise as much as anyone else’s, I burst into tears. I don’t know what it is that’s the breaking point, whether it’s Mike or Christian or having to keep secrets from Kate, or even just my guilt at forgetting  to tell her, but something in me bursts. Kate holds me while I sob, her face against my hair, her hand rubbing gently up and down between my shoulderblades, and guides me back to the couch. My crying jag only lasts a minute or so, but when  I’m done, her concern remains, hanging around me like a  warm blanket. She won’t let me go to  my room then, telling me  gently but firmly that in her experience it’s not good to be alone after something like that, and I don’t know whether I’m imagining the air of something like relief my confession has brought out with her. Nor do I think, until much later, to wonder what experience she’s talking about.

* * *

When Kate wakes me up the next morning, the discussion of the night before apparently put behind her, she’s alarmingly peppy for eight AM. She’s even wearing jogging gear, and, by the smell of sweat hanging around her, she’s already done her running. Groaning, I roll over and cover my head with my pillow. “What d’you want?” I slur into the mattress. It must be pretty incomprehensible, but Kate’s always been good at deciphering early-morning Ana.

“Delivery for you!” I peek at her from under  my pillow. Oh, god, she’s jogging on the spot. This kind of early-morning energy isn’t natural. “You need to sign for it.”

I groan again, tossing over and wrapping my pillow across my face. Into the pillowcase, I mumble, “Can’t you do it? I’m trying to sleep here.”

“He won’t let me.” Kate snatches the pillow away from me, tossing it to the end of the bed, and raises her eyebrows at me. “He says it needs to be you. Come on, Ana, it’s big and interesting-looking and I want to see what it is! Anyway, we’re wasting the poor guy’s time. I’ll make tea. Up.”

I don’t have it in  me to argue, and I know she’s right, but I still wait until she’s left the room to shuffle resentfully out of bed. By the time I make it into the living area, tying my robe as I go, Kate’s already in the kitchen area with the kettle on and three cups spread out on the sideboard. More pressingly, there’s the delivery guy, standing rather awkwardly by the door with a large box at his feet. He’s remarkably smartly-dressed – no UPS or FedEx uniform here – and, despite his long hair, very well put-together. Private hire, definitely. And with a big box which I didn’t order... The sleep-clogged gears of my mind begin to turn slowly towards the inevitable conclusion. _Shit_.

“This isn’t from Christian, is it?” I ask warily, before he can say anything.

The delivery guy ignores my question, but there’s a certain edge to his silence which confirms it. “If you’re Miss Steele, I’ve got this for you. Only I have to set it up for you and show you how it works.”

“Seriously?” I’m half-tempted to tell him to shove it, or at least make him take it back. Curiosity gets the better of me, though. “What is it?”

“It’s a MacBook Pro, ma’am.”

“ _Seriously_?” I can’t restrain the groan. I’m going to have to let Christian know he’s overstepping here. I know he’s rich, but he could at least _ask_ me before he gives me ridiculously expensive presents. In the end, though, four years of college-induced poverty get the better of me. I’m twenty-one, with an arts degree, in a collapsed economy. Between that and student debt, I’m not going to be able to afford my own computer any time soon. And, hey, he’s already bought it. Waste not, want not, right? I sign for the delivery and sit, drinking my tea and trying not to make eye contact with Kate, as the delivery guy walks me through the basics. It’s a very fancy computer, but even so, I’m pretty sure I can work it out myself. I’m not sure why, through the whole process, I can’t bring myself to ask the guy just to cut the crap and leave me to figure it out. Part of it’s that I’ll be cripplingly embarrassed if I then can’t, of course. And maybe a little, just a little, of it is that I’m scared of what Christian will think.

“Your boyfriend,” Kate remarks when the delivery guy’s gone and  I’m sitting staring at my new computer, “is starting to freak me out.”

“He’s not my boyfriend!” I protest, and wonder  where the vehemence in my voice comes from, when it was only meant to be a playful refusal. “Don’t you have a valedictorian speech to write?”

“Well, if you’re going to be like that...” She huffs off to her room, either to write her speech or to call Elliot or, well, whatever Kate does when I’m not around. Her obvious hurt gives me a little pang of guilt, but I squash it mercilessly, sitting and sipping at my tea and watching the MacBook like it might leap up and bite me. Even knowing he’s done it with the best of intentions, Kate has a point. This whole sending-me-stuff is starting to get freaky – not just because I’ve only known him a few days and thought I’d made it clear I didn’t want gifts, but because I never gave him my address. I want to think he’ll lose track of me when we move to Seattle, but I can’t help thinking that’s unlikely, especially if his brother’s coming to help us move.

 _You’re being ridiculous, Ana,_ I scold myself, curling my knees into my chest and looking over  at the Hardy folios in the corner. _He just wants to make you happy. All you need to do is tell him this stuff’s unnecessary, and he’ll stop_. But I’m not as sure as I’d like to be. If there’s one thing I’m learning about Christian, it’s that he expects to get what he wants, and I find  it hard to imagine him stopping to consider  what anyone else wants in the process. On one level, I like that about him. He’s forceful, confident, swaggering... that’s sexy, of course it is. But on another level... And I _did_ already ask him to stop giving me expensive presents.

My fractured thoughts  are interrupted by the _beepbeep_ of incoming email. Sighing, I reach over to click on the email program, half relieved to be distracted, half nervous of what I might find. It turns out to be not one, but two emails, both from Christian. The first, sent  not long after we parted the night before – _wow, he didn’t waste any time, did he?_ – is a whole lot of nothing, about how he hopes I slept well and that he looks forwards to Wednesday and that he’s willing to answer any questions I have. The second, the one that just arrived, is the same load of nothing, but with a distinctly impatient tone.  He wants to know whether I’ve read the contract yet, or started my research. Jesus. Patience really is a foreign word to him, isn’t it?

 _Dear Christian,_ I start to reply, then delete it, aiming for something more casual: _Hey.  You didn’t have to give me a computer, okay?_ But that sounds too confrontational. Dammit. Start over: _Hey. I got the computer (obviously!). You didn’t have to, honestly, I could have gone to the library or something. But thank you._ Not perfect, maybe, but it’ll have to do. I add something about reading  the contract now, press send, and am just getting up to make good on my word when it goes off  again; _beepbeep_. Jesus Christ, doesn’t the man have anything else to be doing?

_Don’t be too long, Miss Steele. I miss you._

“Jesus _Christ_!” This time, I say it out loud, rather relieved that he’s not around to hear me. I resist the urge to send him a snide remark about the better things he could be doing – no point upsetting him just because I’m tired and grumpy, after all – and instead write him a quick message to remind him  that I have work, so I can’t hang around. Before he can reply again, I slam the laptop closed, racing the  inevitable beep of incoming mail, and head back to my room, more shaken than I’d like to admit.

When I’m dressed and breakfasted, still with half an hour until I have  to leave for work, I settle down on my bed and get out the envelope he gave me. There’s a lot of paper in it – a _lot_ – and all of it’s written in dense, ridiculous legalese. _The following are the terms of a binding contract between the Dominant and the Submissive_... Jesus wept. I can’t help wondering whether this is actually legally binding, or just another weird power trip. My English major doesn’t make it any easier to slog through the pages of oblique bullshit, and half a page in, I’m starting to wish I’d majored in pre-law instead. How the hell does he  expect me to take any of this in when it’s all written in the most incomprehensible way possible?

Eventually, glancing at the clock, I skim over the rest of the contract and start reading the appendices, which are much easier to understand (although, really, who needs _appendices_ in starting a relationship? What is he, Tolkien?). The first couple are things I’ve already read – the list of rules Christian showed me before, and the list of hard limits. The third appendix, “Soft Limits” looks like an exam paper, full of multiple-choice questions about how much I like pain and what bondage I’m okay with. How the hell am I supposed to know, I wonder, when I’ve never tried? And then there’s the fourth appendix, which I have to stare at in sheer disbelief for a moment. It’s a list of foods I’m allowed to eat, and it seems to be the shortest thing in the envelope. I mean, I know he wanted to control my eating, but _really_?

I’m quite relieved to get away and head to work, although I wouldn’t admit it. This whole thing is happening way too fast, and I don’t know what to do. Can I cope with it? Do I _want_ to cope with it? What the hell do I do with all this? It’s much easier just to sink into the mindless drudgery of  work, taking stock and putting  on my best dealing-with-customers smile, having a while to breathe. Jose calls me at eleven, and  despite everything else on my mind, it’s a huge relief to hear from him in person.

“Ana? Christ, I’ve been trying to reach you for ages! Are you okay?”

Cupping my phone to my ear, I  lean against the shelving unit in the back room, breathing out slowly. Honestly, I don’t know how to answer that. Am I okay? Well, there’s a billionaire with access to FBI-level tech stalking me, trying to browbeat me into some kinky relationship, and some guy I don’t even know sexually assaulted me in a car park, and I haven’t even made it  to graduation yet. So no, Jose, I’m not really okay. “I’m fine. I’m at work right now, though, can you...”

“Oh!” He sounds genuinely apologetic, and I feel a wave of affection towards this man, this reassuringly normal man who, yes, has a crush on me, but at least has some sense of timing about it. “Sorry, Ana, I just thought... I was going to ask if we could meet up, maybe after work? I’m worried about you. We could go for coffee or something. I’ll buy.”

“I break for lunch at twelve.” It’s a sudden impulse, born out of a desperate need for normality. I know Christian will disapprove if he finds out – I remember how he glared at Levi, and how much worse would it be with someone who transparently crushes on me. But I can’t face the idea of letting him run my life like that, living in fear of hanging out with my friends. “We can go and get a sandwich or something then, okay?”

“Okay!” It comes out of him in a loud, relieved _whoosh_ , and I have to smile. His enthusiasm is reassuring, somehow. “Okay, cool. I’ll see you then.”

“See you.” I hang up, still smiling a little, and head back out front to take over on the till. Christian and  his contract still weigh heavy on my mind, but I’ve never been so glad to talk to Jose. For the first time in days, I feel like myself again.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MASSIVE MASSIVE trigger warning for rape/sexual assault/emotional abuse in this chapter. Be warned. I changed some bits of this situation, but the situation in the book is pretty rapey, and with a character who actually has a self-preservation instinct, it could only be worse here.  
> Also, this is where things are really going to start to diverge from canon. jsyk.

Jose is punctual to a fault, as always; at 11:59, I come back to the counter after helping a customer, and he’s waiting for me, hands in his pockets as he slouches against the wall. When he sees me, he straightens up, a bright smile spreading over his square face. “Ana! Hey!”

“Hey, Jose.” I smile back at him, pushing my hair out of my face, and duck past him to get my bag from behind the counter. “Just let me tell Mrs Clayton I’m taking my break, and we can go, all right?”

“Sure,” he agrees affably, and steps aside to let me get to the back room. It only takes a moment to stick my head around the door and deliver my message, so before too long we’re out of the fresh-wood-and-polish smell of Clayton’s and heading towards the local coffee shop. As we walk, he  slips his arm through mine, and for a moment, I have to fight the urge to pull away. With everything that’s happened in the last few days, I’ve more or less reached my limit with guys touching me without asking. But Jose’s my friend, and even if he is blatantly crushing on me, he’s harmless. He knows where we stand.

“Are you really all right?” he asks, looking down at me. His forehead is knitted with concern, his heavy black eyebrows pulling in tight. “I mean... I guess Kate told you I heard about Lebowitz. I don’t wanna be the bearer of bad news, Ana, but he’s kind of spreading it around. Just say the word,” he adds, almost hopefully, “and I’ll introduce him to a tire iron.”

I smile, but my arm tightens on his. I know he wouldn’t do it – for all his bluster and cool-kid attitude, Jose’s a sweetheart, and the idea of him hitting anyone with a tire iron is ridiculous – but the sentiment’s what matters, and I appreciate it. It helps, because the idea that Mike is telling people about our tryst, twisting it to his advantage, makes the bottom drop out of my stomach. I try not to show that, though, and even manage to laugh a little, although I don’t think Jose’s taken in.

“Forget Lebowitz,” I tell him. I’m going for breezy and relaxed, but it comes out rather tighter than I wanted. “He’ll get bored eventually, and you know I don’t have to stick around here much longer anyway. I’m fine, Jose.” When he raises his eyebrows disbelievingly, I roll my eyes and repeat with a bit more certainty, “Really. I’m fine.”

“...Okay,” he says after a moment, but it’s pretty obvious he’s just saying it to avoid an argument. We head into the coffee shop, Jose letting go of my arm to hold the door open. “I guess you’ve got Kate to look out for you, anyway. If I were Lebowitz, I wouldn’t want to cross her. He’ll be lucky to get out of this with all his arms and legs, never mind my tire iron.”

“If she goes on the warpath, yeah.” I giggle, with a mock-shudder, and join the line at the counter.

“Oh, she’ll go on the warpath for this one,” Jose says with grave  certainty, then cracks another smile. “Okay, what d’you  want to eat?”

* * *

The half-hour or so we spend sitting in the coffee shop, discussing his upcoming photography exhibition and my upcoming graduation and never even _mentioning_ Christian Grey or weird kinky sex, makes me feel so much better it’s unbelievable. By the time I get home that evening, I feel almost like myself again.

Of course, that’s immediately shaken when I open my new computer to find an email from Christian. _Dear Miss Steel,_ he’s written in typically over-formal style, _I hope you had a good day at work. Don’t forget to do your research!_ And then it’s signed off with a professional-looking footer, his name and company, not so much as a _love from_. Weirdly impersonal, I think, then wonder what else I expected from Mr Stick-Up-His-Ass. Even so, with a strange combination of dread and fascination, I realise my nice, normal day is over. It’s time for me to drop right back into the world of sex dungeons and spankings.

I shoot him a quick email to let him know I’m home and that, yes, I had a good day, and I’m just opening up a browser window to start my little research project when, unbelievably fast, I get a response. _While you are emailing, you are not researching_ , he’s written. I roll my eyes, safe in the knowledge he can’t see me to get grumpy about it, and email him back: _Well, stop emailing me then!_ A little bit sharp, maybe, but it gets the point across. It seems to work, too – after that, I don’t get anything more from him, and I’m free to start Googling.

I know the Internet is a boundless source of knowledge and, in the immortal words of that song Kate wouldn’t stop singing for a while, “for porn”, but even so, I’m surprised at just how much information turns up in a cursory search for _sex + spanking_. An hour or so later, I’m elbow-deep in a website for beginning members of the community – there’s a _community?_ – and I have no idea  how to feel. At first glance, most of what it’s talking about seems horrific. Spanking, it seems, is only the start. There’s roleplay, painplay, sensation play... I won’t say it makes de Sade look calm, but he’d definitely feel at home with a lot of it.

And yet... and yet, although the thought of doing most of these things is terrifying, it’s also undeniably hot. I don’t know how to feel about that, either. What does it say about me that I get off on the idea of someone pulling my hair, spitting on me, calling me names? What does it say about me that I’m even considering this? I’m supposed to be a good girl. For God’s sake, up until a couple of days ago I’d never even been kissed. How is it possible that I’m already considering diving headfirst into something like this?

I need some space, I decide at last, and close the computer. I need to get out, to be on my own for a while, away from Christian and domsub.info, to turn this all over in my mind and work out where on earth I can go from here. I hate sports, but I still have running gear in my closet from Kate’s ill-advised attempt to get me to go jogging with her; leaving the computer closed on my desk, I change quickly into trainers and sweatpants, grab my keys and mp3 player, and head out. Kate’s just outside, getting out of the car, and she gapes openly at me as I pass – ungainly, unfit Ana Steele, out for a run. Ignoring her shock, I give her a little wave and start down the street, Snow Patrol in my ears and my mind a thousand miles away.

The weird thing is, it shouldn’t be a difficult decision. Christian’s sexy, smart, rich, and interested, and, yes, I want him. He’s made it clear it’s his way or the highway, so either I accept the contract or I say goodbye to the man of my dreams. It isn’t even that the contract’s that bad – while there’s plenty of bits we’d need to thrash out, and I’m _not_ letting him dictate my exercise or eating habits, bits of what he’s suggesting are really hot. It should be easy to just swallow my doubts and tell him that yes, I’ll do it.

But it’s not. No matter how hard I try to exorcise it, there’s a voice in my head which says in no uncertain terms that accepting that contract would be the stupidest thing I could possibly do. _You don’t even know if you’ll actually enjoy that stuff_ , it whispers. _You’ve only read about it online, and you’re going to sign a_ contract _about it? True, it’s not legally binding, but how hard is it going to be to back out of, with a man like Christian? Besides, remember that feeling you got about him? He slept in a bed with you, Ana. He didn’t take you home. He scares you, you know he does. And you’re going to trust him with all this? With all of_ you _?_

“Shut up,” I mutter under my breath, earning me a funny look from a nearby pigeon. I’ve slowed to a walk, sweat clinging to my skin as I pace through the park. The problem is, I know there’s a point there. Christian’s everything I’ve ever wanted and more – charming, educated, handsome – but he also scares me. Maybe it’s just that he seems too good to be true. Maybe it’s that catlike grace and the heavy muscle I saw on his arms, the surprising strength coiled in his wiry body. Maybe it’s nothing at all. But maybe...

_And maybe not_ , I remind myself sharply. _Are you really going to throw all this away on a maybe?_

When I turn around and jog home through the gathering dusk, I still haven’t reached a clear conclusion. I do feel better, though. The running was remarkably cathartic, and even if it didn’t get me anywhere, it at least burned off some of that nervous energy that was humming through me. Turning my music off and shoving my earphones back into my pocket, I let myself into the duplex.

“Nice run?” Kate asks me cheekily as I walk in. She’s settled in on the couch, with three bags of shopping by her feet and a glass of wine in her hand, feet up on the coffee table.

I shrug, wiping sweat off my face, and hang up my keys. “Okay, I guess,” I say, and it’s not even really a lie. “What’ve you been buying?”

“Oh, you know. This and that. Clothes for Barbados.” Kate puts her wine to one side and grins, swinging her feet off the table. “Want to see?”

“I, uh... maybe later, okay?” In my current state, I really don’t need to be reminded of how much hotter and more confident Kate is than me, and having her sashay around in bikinis and sarongs is definitely going to remind me of that. “I’m going to take a shower and start packing up my room.”

Before I actually do either of those things, though, I have another job to do. I may not know what I’m going to say, but I do know that if I don’t email Christian back, I’m going to stay stuck like this, in this nervous, jittery state. So as I untie my sweaty trainers, I boot up the computer.

_Dear Christian_ , I write, fully expecting to hesitate and sit staring dumbly at the blinking cursor for half an hour, like starting a difficult essay. But actually, the words come out surprisingly easy, although it feels like the kind of headlong dash where thinking too hard about what I’m doing will send me stumbling head-over-heels into a wall. _I did the reading, and I thought about what you said, and I don’t think I can do this right now. Maybe we can go out for coffee again and get into this a bit slower? If not, sorry. I don’t think I can do it._

_Sorry again. It was nice of you to offer._

_Ana Steele._

Before my nerve can fail me, I click _send_. I’m halfway out of the room and heading to the shower when it strikes me what a phenomenally stupid thing I’ve just done. Get into this a bit slower? Talk about doing it later? Don’t be ridiculous, Ana. I’m not exactly a catch, after all, and he’s _Christian Grey_. I’ve lost him. With that, undoubtedly, I’ve lost him. It was enough of a miracle that he’d go for a spotty, soft-bellied, too-thin undergrad anyway, without adding in that she’s too dumb to know what to do and too stubborn to let him have what he wants. By the time I get the bathroom, I’m fighting the urge to run back to my room and send him another email to tell him it was just a joke, that I was messing him about, that of _course_ I’ll sign his stupid contract. But wouldn’t that be even worse? Oh, fuck. What the hell did I just do that for?

The shower does a little to calm me down, but I’m still beating myself up when I get out, wrapping my dressing gown around myself. Drying my hair, as always, takes ages. Usually, it relaxes me – it’s weirdly meditative, that repetitive stroke with the hairdryer – but today it only seems to make things worse. I give up while half my hair’s still dripping, change into my pyjamas, and retreat back into my bedroom in the vague hope that packing will distract me.

Even better, it actually seems to work. It turns out indiscriminately shoving books into boxes and throwing things in a big garbage bag is pretty good anger management, and I lose myself in the work, occasionally reaching up to steady the towel around my hair. By nine o’clock, I’m starting to feel like maybe I’m blowing this whole thing out of proportion. Surely my email wasn’t that bad? Christian’s a grown man. He can take disappointment.

And then I look up, and he’s leaning on the doorframe of my room.

“Good evening, Anastasia,” he says, as though we’d met on the street. As though he wasn’t in my room. As though all of this was perfectly normal and nothing at all to fuss about. I try to force out a reply, not even knowing whether I’m glad or furious to see him, but all that comes out is a strangled little “... _eep_.” That seems to amuse him. His grey eyes glitter, and he straightens up, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

“I thought your email warranted a reply in person,” he said, as if that was enough of an explanation. “May I sit down?”

_No!_ that irritatingly reasonable voice in the back of my mind shrieks. _No, you can’t sit down! What the hell are you doing in my ROOM?_ But that voice isn’t the boss of me. I nod, and witness the frankly bizarre sight of Christian Grey, CEO, casually settling on the badly quilted bedcovers my mom made me. My mouth is dry, and my throat seems to have closed up, making it hard to breathe, let alone speak. Although I’ve more or less invited him to stay, I find myself looking for exits, but there’s only the door or the window, and I can’t rely on getting out through either of those. All I can do is stand there like an idiot, blinking at him as he gazes around my room.

“I wondered what your bedroom would look like,” he says conversationally. “I like it. Very peaceful.”

Finally, I find my voice enough to croak, “What are you...?”

“I told you. I thought it deserved a personal reply.” The humour’s gone out of his eyes now. Holy shit, is he _offended_? I expected a lot of things, but I didn’t expect that. “It was _nice_ of me, was it?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I manage miserably, tearing my eyes away from him, but the truth is, I don’t even know how I meant it. I’m about to try and explain, to put my English language skills to the test and construct a proper argument for once, but he interrupts me.

“Are you biting your lip on purpose, Anastasia?” he asks, his voice dark and sweet as molasses. It’s a dangerous tone, but it’s also unexpectedly alluring, and when he beckons me closer, I find that my body obeys him, regardless of every primal part of my brain shouting at him. Gulping, I release my lip. I feel like I’m being hypnotised somehow, pulled in by those oddly arresting grey eyes.

“Not on purpose, no,” I say thickly. His hand comes up, the backs of his fingers stroking my cheek, and he shakes his head.

“And just why can’t you do this right now, Anastasia?” he asks softly. “If you don’t want to, that’s all right. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know,” I whisper, but how can I explain that it’s more complicated than that. I do want to. I want to more than anything, and even if I didn’t before, he’s right here, sitting on my bed, with his hypnotic grey eyes and his soft skin and his light, clean smell. God, I want to say yes. I want him. But I also know, now more than ever, that it would be a bad idea.

I try to say so, but I can’t even start to put it into words, and Christian isn’t letting up. His fingers glide up my cheekbone, tugging at my earlobe, and I let out a little sigh. Christian smiles like a Cheshire cat, a smug little twist of his full lips that shouldn’t be nearly as hot as it is. “But I know you do want me, Miss Steele,” he purrs, leaning up so his face is close to mine. “Don’t you?”

_No_ , I try to say, but I’ve always been a terrible liar. “Yes,” I find myself saying instead, leaning in a little closer.

He grabs my waist and pulls me down with sudden ferocity, twisting like a snake as he does so. Somehow, that slick move ends up with him straddling my hips, pinning my hands above my head as he kisses me hard. There’s a bitter taste to it in the back of my mind, but I can feel my libido stirring in response, and there’s a dampness between my thighs. He’s feeling it, too, judging by just which parts of his body are pressing up against me. He wants me. Not Kate, with her perfect figure and new bikinis, not the beautiful blondes at his office, _me_. Despite the circumstances, and that nagging, growing discomfort with the situation, that’s a rush.

At last, he stops kissing me, and his weight shifts on me as he sits up. Opening my eyes, I see him gazing down at me as he pulls a grey silk tie out of his pocket – the same tie, I realise, that he tied me up with yesterday. “Do you trust me?” he asks, scanning my face.

_No_ , I think. “Yes,” I say, but my voice shakes a little, uncertain, untruthful.

It’s clearly good enough for him. Shifting so he’s straddling my belly, he ties my wrists together over my head, and leans over me. I can’t see what he’s doing, and panic is starting to build in me. This was a mistake. Letting it get this far was a mistake. _He stalked you to your HOUSE for this!_ the voice of reason shouts at me, and I’m starting to think it’s right. It doesn’t help one little bit when Christian finishes tying and tugs on the tie to test his knots, and I realise I’m fastened to the bed.

“Christian,” I whisper, hoarsely, and my tongue darts out to wet my lips. “Christian, wait.”

Either he doesn’t hear, or he’s ignoring me. The towel’s fallen off my head, and my damp hair lies across my face, clinging like waterweed. He slides down my body, and his hands are on my waistband, and the panic is in my throat now, choking me. How did I let it get this far? As he starts to pull at my pyjama pants, I kick out, not aiming for him, just trying to get his attention. “ _Christian!_ ”

Thank God, he stops. But then he looks up at me, and I see the darkness of anger in his eyes. “If you struggle, I’ll tie your feet too. If you make a noise, Anastasia, I will gag you. Keep quiet. Katherine is probably outside listening right now.”

_Kate!_ Oh, God, I forgot she was in the house. And listening? She wouldn’t. Would she? Might she? Either way, I can’t let her know what’s happening in here. She already hates him, and she won’t understand what’s going on.

_Won’t she?_ That nasty little voice is back with a vengeance. _Or is what you’re worried about that she’ll understand better than you? That she was right?_

I almost moan, but he threatened to gag me, and I can’t have that right now. How will I ever get out of this if he gags me? Instead, I lie perfectly still as he lifts my hips and slides off my pyjama pants, leaving me naked from the waist down. Another horrible thought strikes me: what if this is all some kind of revenge for me turning him down? What if he’s going to leave me like this, tied and exposed? He wouldn’t, surely? I can trust him. He said I could trust him. I have to trust him, if he’s going to dominate me. That’s the one thing those websites seemed to say the most. Trust. Trust is important.

But when he pulls my shirt up over my face, blindfolding me with it and making my breaths musty and muffled, I can’t do it. “Christian,” I say, louder now, my voice shaking. “Christian, I don’t...” Before I can get any further, a hand comes down over my t-shirt covered mouth. The fabric clamps over my nose, making it hard to breathe. I can smell my own sweat – it’s been too long since I washed these pyjamas.

“I warned you,” he says, in a low, dangerous voice. “If you make a noise, I will gag you. So shut the fuck up.”

_Oh God. Oh God._ The panic is overwhelming now, drowning me, suffocating me. I can feel myself trying to hyperventilate, but with his hand over my mouth and the t-shirt pressing against my nostrils, it’s hard enough just to breathe. I writhe and buck, no longer caring that I’m naked, not caring that I might lose him, just knowing that I can’t let him gag me. Not now. Not like this.

My foot catches him, just hard enough that his grip over my mouth loosens, and the second I can draw breath, I scream, past worrying who sees me like this, past anything rational like that. “Help! _KATE!_ ”

Christian inhales sharply, and then he hauls the t-shirt roughly off my face, shaking me hard by the shoulders. His eyes are no longer grey, but almost black, dark with fury. “What are you doing?” he gasps, his eyes wild. “I told you! We can’t let her know about this! You _signed the NDA_!”

My panic has dried up into cast-iron terror, paralysing me. I want to apologise, make him see it was a mistake, that I didn’t think... but the air and the words catch in my throat, and I can’t even wheeze. My heart, which was pounding like a punk band just a moment ago, seems to have stopped completely. Ice grips my spine, and I open and close my mouth. _Sorry. I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me. I’m sorry._

“What the _fuck_ is going on in here?” Kate slams the door open, and for a moment, before Christian fills my line of sight again, I see her. She’s obviously been trying on her new clothes, because she’s in a tiny bikini and sarong, and maybe later I’ll think about what ridiculous attire that is for saving my ass, but right now I’m too close to fainting from relief.

“Nothing.” Christian’s stepped between her and the bed, arms and legs akimbo, as if he can stop her seeing me. “Nothing. She’s just...” He looks back at me, and what’s horrible is that I can see the desperation in his eyes, the horror. He didn’t want me to feel like this, I realise, with a horrible wrench of guilt. He didn’t hear me. He didn’t realise I was serious. _Oh, God, Ana, what did you do to him?_

Kate doesn’t seem to realise any of that. She plants both hands against his chest and shoves him, hard. “You get the fuck out of our house, you sicko!” she snarls, and there’s a wildness to her I’ve never seen before, even in her worst rages. “Get the fuck out, before I call the police!”

“Kate!” I sob, from the bed. Paralysis has given way to a horrible, uncontrollable hysteria, and I’m crying desperately, tears and snot trailing down my face. “Kate, no! It’s not what you think!”

She looks at me, and for  a moment her face softens,  and I think that somehow, impossibly, it’s all going to be okay. Her hands drop to her sides, and she steps away from Christian, who looks so lost and alone it breaks my heart. “Ana,” she murmurs, hurrying over to cover me up with the quilt. “Oh, Ana...” But then she looks up at Christian, and her face goes as hard as a statue, and all my vain hopes crumble. “Get out, Grey,” she says, and for a moment I’m more scared of her than I am of him. The sheer venom in her voice, the ice and hate of it, could strike a man dead. “Get out right this fucking minute, or I swear to God, I’ll rip everything you are and everything you have down around you.”

She can’t. I know she can’t. I wouldn’t let her even if she could. But Christian takes one step back, then another, then turns and walks away, his beautiful eyes downcast and his shoulders slumped in clear misery. Part of my heart seems to go with him, ripping me apart. Part of me wants to spit after him and tell him never to come near me again. But he’s gone, and as Kate gently unties my arms and holds me close, all I can do is fall against her and sob like it’ll never end.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another warning on this chapter for discussion of rape, although you're probably able to deal with it if you dealt with the last chapter. Other than that, we're pretty SFW. Enjoy!

Kate stays with me that whole evening. I’m not at all sure I want her there to start with, but when she leaves to fetch me a glass of water and a box of tissues, I realise I want even less to be left alone. She seems to know that, and although she can’t be all that comfortable sitting up against an iron bedstead in a bandeau bikini, she doesn’t complain; when she comes back, she passes me my pyjama bottoms wordlessly and then takes up her position again, sitting cross-legged on my pillow with my head against her chest, stroking my damp hair with one hand. She doesn’t say anything for a good half-hour. No Kavanagh Inquisition for me, not this time.

For my part, I don’t seem to be able to stop crying. I manage to pull myself together enough to get my pyjamas back on properly and drink the water she brings me, but every time I think I might be ready to let her leave, I break down into another crying jag. My thoughts are just as fractured and uneven as my breathing, and I can’t even quite work out why I’m crying. Is it for me, because I didn’t get what I wanted? For Christian, who looked so broken-hearted? For the future I might have had with him, which I’ve now broken beyond repair? For the whole lost idea that maybe, just maybe, we could have worked through it all? I don’t know. All I know is that my heart’s broken, and it’s my own stupid fault.

Eventually, my sobbing turns into sniffling, and my sniffling turns into yawning, and the next thing I know, it’s morning. Kate’s gone, taking my abandoned towel with her, and I’m tucked up under my mother’s quilt, warm and safe. For a moment, I almost forget that everything’s gone wrong, and then it all comes crashing back in. I don’t cry this time, though. Instead, I roll over with a groan, burying my face in my pillow, and try to swallow the tightness in my throat. Maybe my eyes leak a little, but I wouldn’t admit it on pain of death. I’m stronger than that, I tell myself. Would Elizabeth Bennet or Tess Durbeyfield let this get the best of them? Well, okay, maybe Tess might, but look how well that turned out for _her_.

Unfortunately, thinking about Tess only reminds me that all this is my own fault. He asked me, I remember. Angel Clare or Alec d’Urberville. I chose debasement, and now look at me. Well, I’ve been thoroughly debased, that’s for sure. I should probably have guessed that was going to come back to bite me in the butt.

It’s weird, but that’s the thought that gets me to pull myself together, and even makes me smile a little. Rubbing my hands over my face as though I can rub off the feeling of my own cloying stupidity, I sit up in bed and take a deep breath. It’s not the end of the world, I remind myself, even if it feels like it. Like Jane Eyre, I decide after several minutes struggling to think of a heroine who doesn’t come to a sticky end, I will endure.

With that new resolution in place, I drag myself out of bed and immediately head into the bathroom. I feel like I haven’t showered in weeks, despite the fact that my hair was still damp when I went to sleep last night – dried sweat and my own weakness and cruelty cling to me like a second skin. I do my best to sluice them off with hot water, closing my eyes as the shower door clouds up with steam, and scrub myself with a bit more force than is strictly necessary.

I might be calmer now, but I still can’t even begin to untangle how I feel about what happened last night. Obviously, I’m not happy, but that’s about as far as I can categorise my emotions. I don’t even know who to blame for my current state. I want to be angry at Christian, who showed up out of the blue and thought he could take whatever he wanted, but the voice of reason whispers at the back of my mind _Isn’t that exactly what you wanted? What you were hoping for?_ And, unfortunately, I can’t pretend it’s wrong. I wouldn’t have admitted to it at the time, but looking back on it, yes, that was what I wanted when I wrote that email. I wanted him to sweep in forcefully like Mr Rochester, as romantic and nuanced as Mr Darcy, and, yes, like Alec d’Urberville, I wanted him to debase me. I wanted him to do those things to me, the ones I’d read about. Wasn’t that why I’d panicked and sent him that email in the first place? Because I wanted it, and I was afraid of that?

No, it isn’t Christian’s fault. And it certainly isn’t Kate’s, despite the part of me that seems to have picked her out as the only other person I can blame. The truth is, the blame for this whole mess is squarely on the shoulders of one Anastasia Rose Steele, who needs to get her goddamn act in order and start figuring out what she wants instead of blaming other people when she doesn’t get it. The truth is, if I’d been honest with myself and Christian from the start, this would never have happened. Now his secret’s out, and we’re apart, and it’s all my fault.

I’ll call him, I decide, as I step from the shower with my skin pink and tingling from the scalding hot water. As soon as Kate’s out – I know she won’t approve, unfortunately, but that’s just because she doesn’t know the whole story – I’ll call him. He probably won’t want to talk to me, but at least I can leave a voicemail for him, tell him that I’m sorry, let him know that I won’t let Kate cause trouble for him. Let him know that I’m sorry for driving him away with that kicked-puppy look in his eyes, that I didn’t mean it, that I know he didn’t mean it either. Reassure him that I won’t let his dirty little secret spread any more. I’ll get Kate to sign another NDA, if I have to, or...

...oh, God, the NDA. That’s one factor that hasn’t occurred to me until now, and now there’s a new level of anxiety. What if he presses charges? Can he sue? What if he takes me to court and I have to stand up and say that it was my fault, that I’m too stupid even to keep a secret, that I got my wires crossed and just blurted it out and now everything’s ruined and...

I’m panicking again. _Jane Eyre_ , I remind myself, leaning against the sink and trying to stop hyperventilating. _Maggie Tulliver. Kitty Scherbatskaya. Hold it together, Ana, come on_. It’s a practice I got into in my teens, this habit of remembering all the literary heroines who had to deal with so much more than I did. If they could keep going through all their hardships, I tell myself, I can too. So I keep on thinking _Tess Durbeyfield, Ruth Hilton, Helen Graham_ , until my breathing steadies and I can start to calm down. Even so, the equilibrium I was just starting to gain has slipped away again, and the best I can do is keep my anxiety under wraps as I towel myself off, brush my teeth, and head back into my room to get dressed.

Kate’s waiting in the living room when I head out for breakfast. Well, she’s not exactly moping around holding her breath for me to appear – she’s got a cup of coffee in one hand and the morning news in the other, and she’s lounging across the sofa looking as gorgeous and unruffled as ever – but I can see from her expression when she looks up that she was waiting for me anyway. She tosses the paper down on the table the moment I walk in, standing up.

“The kettle boiled a minute or two ago, and there’s pancakes in the oven if you want them,” she informs me, but there’s an odd brittleness behind her bright, cheerful tone.

I give her a funny look. “You made pancakes? _You_?” I’ve been in charge of the kitchen as long as Kate and I have known each other, and with good reason. That girl could burn a salad. In fact, she actually _did_ burn a salad once, and I still have no idea how she did it.

“If by ‘made pancakes’ you mean ‘opened the packet’, then yes. Yes, I did.” Kate, to her credit, looks a little embarrassed about this. She doesn’t like to admit there are things she can’t do, which is one of many reasons that I find myself suddenly engulfed by love and gratitude for this amazing woman. “I thought you might not want to make breakfast after all that shit last night, so I dropped by the shops when I was out running. Hope they’re okay.”

They are, which is kind of amazing in itself, although I don’t say so. I help myself to a hefty plateful to show willing, although I’m not at all hungry, and pour myself some tea. “You didn’t have to,” I tell her from the kitchen, and I mean it. “I’m fine.”

I swear I hear her mutter “Bullshit,” but that’s probably just paranoia, because when I head out to join her in the living room, she’s smiling at  me like she really believes I’m okay. Maybe she does. Maybe I’m a better actress than I know. I’m going to pretend that’s the case, anyway, so I smile back and sit down at the dining table, drizzling syrup on my pancakes and cutting myself a little bite. Honestly, that’s all I want, but under Kate’s eagle eye and in the knowledge that she went way out of her comfort zone to get them for me, I force down the entire plateful.

“So, uh,” I say as neutrally as possible, sipping at my Twinings as I look up at her, “are you just packing today, or is anything else on the packed Kavanagh agenda?”

Kate sighs. “We _are_ going to talk about yesterday, Ana,”  she warns me, flopping back onto the couch and picking her newspaper up. “Don’t think you can get away with it forever.” But then her face softens, and she gives me a little smile, almost apologetic, her bright green eyes creasing at the corners. “I need to get those fucking papers from the printers so they can be ready to sell at graduation. Levi’s going with me. And I need to work on my speech. Slow day, you know. Are you going to call in sick?”

“What?” I start to say, then remember with a thudding weight in my gut that I have work. Great. That’s the last thing I need today, especially when the owners’ son is around. Paul always hits on me. Usually it’s manageable, even flattering, but today I’m not sure I can cope. On the other hand, I don’t think I can cope with being around here all day to worry over the mess I’ve made, either. Hopefully none of that shows up on my face. I force a smile. “No, of course not. Told you, I’m fine. Anyway, it’s not going to be that busy.”

“Famous last words.” With another little sigh, Kate looks over her still-folded paper, rubbing her forehead. “Ana, promise me you’re really okay?”

“I’m really, really okay. I promise.”

I feel like a traitor for lying to her, but what else am I supposed to say? _No, Kate, I’m not okay. I’m torn up into a million pieces and it’s all because you came in when I called, because you wanted to save me, because I was too silly to shut my stupid mouth. I’m not okay. I’m falling apart over some stupid misunderstanding, and I don’t know what to do_.

I can’t say that. So I do the only thing I _do_ know to do – I eat my breakfast, wash it up, and go to work, where I stand at a counter all day and struggle to smile. I tell Paul, gently but firmly, that I’m in a really bad place with romance right now, and I really can’t go for coffee with him. I rearrange the stock, sign for a delivery, and shoot the breeze with Mr Hao, the old guy who comes in for a new packet of nails and woodstain every week without fail. With the exception of a brief crying fit in the staff bathroom in my break, I cope.

And the whole time, I worry. Mostly, I’m not even worrying about what Christian’s going to do any more. I’m worried about _Kate_. She went out and bought pancakes, and she held me all night, and there was that vicious fire in her eyes when she screamed at Christian, and every way I turn it in my mind, there’s only one conclusion: she thinks this is her fight. She thinks this _is_ a fight, and I’m tormented by the image of her turning it into a full-pitched battle. Right now, she could be calling up Elliot, or Christian, or the _Tribune_. Hell, wouldn’t that be a scoop for her? Katherine Kavanagh draws back the veil on the perverted world of the billionaire CEO. I wouldn’t suspect her of doing it just for the fame, but if she thought it was for my sake too... _please let her wait. Please._ I should have told her before I left, made her promise not to spread it about, but I lost my nerve at the crucial moment, just like I did last night.

Just like I do again on the way out of my work, when I pull out my cell and hover on Christian’s number for a good five minutes before putting the phone back in my pocket. I justify it to myself by saying email will be easier anyway, that he can’t hang up on an email. I know the truth, though. I don’t call him because I’m a coward, and it’s the same cowardice that got us all in this mess in the first place. I turn the car radio off and drive home in silence, raging at myself. If I have to pull over to the curb once or twice to wipe my eyes and blow my nose, well, nobody but me has to know.

Luckily, when I get back, Kate’s out. That takes one hurdle out of the long, painful route to opening up my computer and starting a grovelling email to Christian. And believe me, when I say grovelling, I mean _grovelling_. It isn’t just that he deserves an apology, but that the email program isn’t judging me. It’s an easy way to pour out all my confused feelings, my bizarre grief, my guilt, my inward-turning anger... after ten minutes, I’m on the second page of rambling nonsense and I’ve even stopped checking every ten seconds to make sure Kate isn’t back.

I’m eventually startled out of my stupor of guilt and misery by the phone ringing. For a moment, I dither, afraid to leave and pick up the phone in case it’s Christian, afraid to let it ring off the hook for the exact same reason. I stand up and sit back down at least three times before forcing myself to send the email and grab the telephone up in double-quick time.

It isn’t Christian. Almost as bad, though – it’s my mom. I love her, in all her slightly-scatterbrained glory, but she’s obsessed with getting me a boyfriend, and the idea of what she’d think if she knew about last night makes me want to scream. Worse, even over the phone I can hear the worry in her voice, and a new thought occurs sickly to me; what if it was _Mom_ who Kate called?

“Mom?” My voice comes out as a little squeak, and I have to clear my throat before pressing on. “Um, hi. What’s up?”

“Ana, honey, are you okay? You sound a little...”

“I’m fine!” I interrupt, a little too loudly, and take a deep breath. “Um. I’m fine. Just got in from work.”

“Oh. Okay.” Mom sounds a little put out,  probably because I just yelled at her, but to her credit, she seems to regain her composure very quickly. That’s my mom all over – she might be prone to getting herself in trouble, but it’s all water off a duck’s back to her. “Well, honey, I’m really sorry to call with bad news when you’re tired, but...”

I zone out for a moment, giddy with relief. She’s calling with bad news. So she’s not calling _for_ bad news, so Kate hasn’t told her. I shouldn’t be so grateful for bad news, but it’s a port in a storm, and God knows I need one of those. I’m so distracted by that relief that I miss what the actual news is, and have to ask her to repeat it.

“We’re not coming to your graduation, Ana,” she says gently, and the relief goes right out of me. “Bob’s ankle... I mean, I suppose I could come out on my own, but it’s a bad sprain and he’ll have trouble getting around the house on his own. If you really need me there, honey, I suppose...” There’s a strange sort of hope in her voice, like she wants me to convince her, but I’m too on edge to notice it in the moment.

“No, you stay and look after Bob. Ray’s still coming, right? So it’s not like I’ll be on my own.” In a weird way, perhaps it’s for the best. Christian will be at the graduation, after all. If I’m going to have family around, I’d rather it be the stoic bulwark of my stepdad than my ever-romantic mother. “Give Bob my love, okay? Tell him I hope he gets better soon. I’ll call later, I just...” I just can’t have this conversation right now. I just need to breathe. I just need to stop talking to you, before I blurt out everything that’s happened, before I burst into tears again and make everything worse. “I’ve just got stuff to do right now. I’m sorry, Mom. I love you.”

I’m ashamed to say I hang up on my mom while she’s still saying she loves me too. Returning to my room, I flop down at my desk, head in my hands, and wonder how everything went so wrong so quickly. Christian hates me. I hate myself. Kate’s panicking over me, and now Bob’s sprained his ankle and Mom’s stuck in Georgia. Is there some kind of curse on me? What else can possibly go wrong?

It’s while I’m thinking those cheerful thoughts that there’s the beep of an incoming email. Given what I’m thinking about, it’s probably not a surprise that my hand shakes as I go to open the message. My panic only gets worse when I see it’s from Christian Grey. Subject line: _I’m sorry_. Is this a reply? How can he possibly have read my message so quickly? How can _he_ be sorry? I have to force myself to actually read the email even when it’s open, and my fingers claw nervously at the hem of my shirt.

_Anastasia. I am not a man who apologises very often, particularly not for things that should be so enjoyable, but I clearly upset you last night. I just received your email, and am about to read it, but before I do, I want you to know that I don’t blame you. You panicked. It’s natural. We can meet for coffee, as you asked, and talk it over. I do not give up this easily when there is something I want, and you are something I want very much. Why don’t we meet at the Heathman tomorrow evening, and we can clear this up?_

I stare at his message for several minutes, reading and rereading it. I’m furious – how dare he think it’s this simple, that he can just take me for coffee and make it all better? But if he can, how wonderful would that be? And he apologised. I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t just read it, but Christian Grey, CEO of Stick-In-The-Mud Enterprises, just _apologised_. And there’s the possibility, faint and tantalising, of forgiveness, of picking up all the shattered pieces. I hate him. I loathe him. I want him. I love him. Can I really turn down another chance?

Kate calls my name from the main room. I slam the laptop closed and straighten up, trying to pin down why I feel like I’ve just committed a felony. It doesn’t help that as soon as she sees me, she puts down the boxes she’s carrying and folds her arms. “You called him, didn’t you?”

“No?” It’s baffling and more than a bit annoying that that, which is technically true, comes out sounding more like a lie than anything I said about being fine. Even I can’t pretend it was remotely convincing – my voice is high and quavering, and I can feel the heat of my blush.

Kate opens her mouth,  then closes it again. I expect a lecture, but what I get instead is a hug, her arms tight around me and my face pressed against her shoulder. When she pulls away, her full lips are tight, her long-lashed eyes half-closed. “...Ana,” she says quietly, beckoning me over to the couch as she moves to sit down. “Can you maybe sit with me a while? I’m not going to ask you any questions or anything, and I’m not going to tell you off, I promise. I want to tell you a story.”

Uncertain, but unresisting, I follow her and sit against the arm of the couch, my knees folded up to my chest. Honestly, this is unnerving in its own unique way. Kate is usually so loud, so confident. Seeing her quiet and subdued like this might be the most terrifying thing all day, and today’s been a pretty terrifying day.

“You know,” she starts, still in that un-Kate-like little voice, “when I was in school, I used to think everyone hated me. I saw a therapist about it, best money could buy, but I still... I was fat and I was loud and I couldn’t make myself fit in, even when I tried to be quiet and nice I just ended up being rude. And guys didn't like me because I was too girly, and girls didn't want to hang out with me because... you know. So I just figured everyone hated me, because why wouldn’t they?”

This is news to me, and a small, nasty part of me really resents her dredging up her past like this when I’m dealing with my own issues. I shake my head, raising my eyebrows, the picture of friendly reassurance. “Kate, nobody could ever hate you.”

“Hey. No flattery when I’m telling stories.” There’s a flash of the Kate I know and love, sarcastic and self-confident. Unfortunately, it doesn’t last. “I don’t think that now. But when I was sixteen, that’s what I thought, and I kept trying to get people to like me, and I flirted a lot, but I used to get really clingy and I dated this big long string of assholes, tried to figure out if I was too gay for the girls or too straight for the guys or if it was just that nobody was ever going to want to fuck me at all. And then... I, uh, I had this friend. Martin. And I’d just broken up with this girl who said some really nasty things to me when we split, and I was crying on Martin’s shoulder, and he stuck his tongue in my mouth. And I let him, because he was my friend and I needed someone to make me feel like...”

She breaks off, shaking her head. She’s not meeting my eyes any more, and she’s picking nervously at her long nails, her forehead creased as if in effort. “He raped me,” she says bluntly after a moment, and glanced up at me. “I told him not to, but he raped me, and then he said he’d see me in class tomorrow, and then he left.” She laughs, shakily, and I’m horrified to see that there are the starts of tears starting in her eyes. “He was really... _really_ crap in bed, too.”

“Oh, Kate...” My resentment’s gone now, completely gone. I never knew anything about this. I never asked, and she never told. It’s hard to reconcile with the Kate I thought I knew, who’s unshakeable and unbreakable. This Kate is holding herself together through will alone. Uncurling myself, I move to her side, putting my hand on hers.

She curls her fingers around mine, but she doesn’t look at me or acknowledge that I’ve spoken. “I never told anyone because I thought it was my fault,” she confides to the carpet, and sniffs. “God, look at me. I’m a mess. This... I didn’t think it was going to go like this. But yesterday... Ana, I can’t let you go through that. It fucks you up, I swear. And I heard you in the shower this morning, and I...” She turns her head at last, looking at me. “I showered like six times after Martin. Really hot showers. Did you know you used up all the hot water this morning?”

 _Shit_. “It wasn’t like that, Kate,” I protest, but I’m aware of how weak it sounds. “Christian didn’t... I get that you’re trying to help, but it wasn’t like that. He wasn’t trying to hurt me. I just. I panicked.”

“Sure.” Kate’s mouth twists into a parody of a smile. “He didn’t mean to hurt you. But he _did_ , didn’t he? Hurt you? Ana, that’s not how rape works. You can’t just back out of it with an _oops, didn’t mean to_. Especially not if you’re going to tie someone up. Did he even give you a safeword?” She waits for me to answer, but I can’t. I know there _was_ a safeword on the contract he gave me, something simple and easy to remember, it’s on the tip of my tongue... but I can’t catch it. I’m still tied up in the revelation that Kate, _my_ Kate, has been keeping something like this a secret all those years. Eventually, she gives up on waiting, and just puts her arms around me, resting her face against my hair.

“I’m not going to get in your way, Ana,” she says at last, her breath tickling against my ear. “If you want to get back with him, that’s your call. I just... I love you, and I don’t want you to get hurt. I just want you to know that. And I want you to know it’s not your fault.”

“Wait a minute.” I’ll probably regret this, but there’s something in that which snagged on my mind. “What did you just say?”

“I said  it’s not your fault.” Kate pulls back a little way, resting her forehead against mine, and closes her damp eyes. “I’m not going to let you blame yourself for this, Ana. You’re better than that. Don’t let him off the hook just because he’s cute.”

“Gotcha.” I think back guiltily to the emails we’ve exchanged, but I’m not about to mention that now. “Um, Kate? Did you just say you lo...”

“As a friend!” Kate bursts out across me, her eyes wide, and pulls away from me sharply. “You’re my best friend! You don’t think... I mean, don’t take it the wrong way, you’re gorgeous and everything, but if you think I’m going to start propositioning you at a time like this... I just meant...”

“Oh my god.” Despite myself, despite everything, a little smile forces its way onto my face. “Oh my god, you _do_! You _like_ me!”

“Oh, Jesus.” Kate puts her face in her hands. “Jesus fuck. Ana, it’s not like that. I just... okay, maybe it’s a _bit_ like that, but we are _not_ doing this now. We’re talking about you. And last night. And why boys suck. It was a slip of the tongue, okay? Let it go. I’m not...”

“So you wouldn’t like it if I kissed you?” There’s a bit of mischief in it – okay, a _lot_ of mischief – but there’s also genuine curiosity. It’s weird to think about. I’ve never looked at Kate in that light before. I mean, sure, I’ve had occasional thoughts pop up when she wanders around mostly naked, but that’s normal, isn’t it? Even if I’ve never had those thoughts about the people she walks about mostly naked _with_...

“Ana...” Kate sighs, bringing me back to reality. If this even is reality. It feels less real by the minute. “Can we not talk about this right now? Look, I’ve said my piece. We need to pack, and I need to do my speech, and... look, maybe we can talk about this another time? If you don’t want to live with me in Seattle now, I understand, but we still need to get our stuff out of this place, and...” She shakes her head sharply, like someone dislodging a fly or an errant thought. Her thick strawberry blonde hair flies. “I got some more boxes for packing if you need them.” And just like that, she gets up, disentangling herself from my arms, her face redder than I’ve ever seen it. The unembarrassable Kavanagh is, apparently, thoroughly embarrassed. It’s weirdly endearing.

“Kate.” I stand up, too, touching her arm as she starts away. She turns her head, swallowing audibly, and I lean up on my tiptoes to kiss her on the cheek. “Thanks. It’s okay. We’re okay. Thanks.”

And I don’t tell her that I already said I’d meet with Christian tomorrow, and I _definitely_ don’t tell her that she looks beautiful when she blushes. But there’s a part of me, a left-brain part that’s already shuffling it away into filing, that thinks _so all the times you were looking at her... was she looking back_?


	15. Chapter 15

**15**

I go through the next day in a daze, burying myself away in my packing boxes in the morning and the stockroom at Clayton's in the afternoon. I've only got a couple of shifts left, and I know I'm going to miss my friendly employers and the regular customers, but I can't bring myself to be sociable with them. Mr Hao shows up specially, saying that he heard I was graduating and wanted to offer his congratulations, but although it's a kind thought and I genuinely appreciate his concern, he still only gets a few words out of me. I feel bad for that, particularly since he's an old man and has clearly gone out of his way to drop by, but my mind's just too full to be able to keep up a conversation.

Paul Clayton also drops by to offer his congratulations, but I'm not willing to put in so much effort for him. Not when his idea of “congratulations” is sidling up to me while I'm trying to work and going “Just once, Ana. Come out for a coffee with me just this once.”

I grunt at him, ducking back into the stockroom and hoping he takes the hint, but of course it's never that easy. He follows me, taking the boxes out of my hands, and for the third time this week, there's a guy all up in my personal space. Only this time, I'm not drunk and it's not Christian Grey; when he comes close enough that I can smell his aftershave and the petrol he's just been putting in his car, I duck past him, conscious not of fear but of anger. I don't like it. It's hot and hard in my belly, a tight ball of rage waiting to be let out, and on some level I'm afraid of what I might do under the stress of the last few days.

Trying to keep my cool, I turn my back on him and start back to the tills, hoping he doesn't follow. If I can get some breathing space, it'll be okay. _One more shift after this, Ana. Just keep your head down and breathe steady. Jane Eyre, Tess Durbeyfield, Nancy_. I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, and force a smile for the woman at the counter. “Hello, how can I help you?”

But when I've finished serving her and I look up from the till, Paul's still there, leaning on the doorframe and giving me what he doubtless thinks is a charming smile. “Come on, Ana. Don't be like that.”

Something in me, a dam under the pressure of Christian and Lebowitz and Kate's revelations, bows one last time and breaks. The tight anger in my gut unfurls into rage. I wheel on Paul with a snarl. “Don't be like that?  _Don't be like that_ ? I am doing my  _job_ , Paul! You know, the job I do for your parents, which is the only reason I haven't told you where to stick it, because I have been trying to tell you for four years that I am  _not interested_ ! Now how about instead of lounging around hitting on the staff, you get your ass back in the stockroom and be fucking  _helpful_ for once?” I glare at him, breathing heavily, and while part of me is exhilarated, most of me is terrified. I don't blow up like that normally. Not ever. I hate the way the anger is taking me over, turning me into someone else. Paul flinches, visibly shocked and hurt, and I can't even bring myself to be sorry.

I hear the steady, hollow sound of clapping as he scurries away, and turn to see that, to my surprise, the woman I just served is applauding. “Hope you don't lose your job over that, sugar,” she tells me in a conspiratorial tone, flashing me a smile. “Boy needed tellin'. If it comes down to it, I'll back you up on that.”

I look at her, speechless with shock and a sudden bizarre gratitude, and it takes me a moment to shake my head. “It's okay,” I tell her, my lips feeling numb. “I'm moving away next week anyway.”

“Ah.” With a rather knowing look, she tips me a wink and scoops up her bag of purchases. “Hope your next place won't have trash like him in it.”

“So do I,” I say, but there isn't much feeling behind it any more. The anger's withdrawn almost as fast as it came, leaving me empty and achingly hopeless. _Are all men like this, and I'm just now noticing?_ I kind of want to ask her, but I've done enough inappropriate stuff for one shift, so I just smile back at her and tuck my hair behind my ears. “Thank you, ma'am. Have a nice day.”

* * *

I leave work a little early. Mrs Clayton, who's been looking at me askance since Paul told her what I said, doesn't object, and doesn't smile like she usually does, although she does wish me good luck for graduation. I don't have much to say in reply, just a subdued little mumble of gratitude as I head out of the shop.

Kate isn't home. I'm immensely relieved, because the last thing I want is to face questions about where I'm going and who I'm seeing. I have enough of those questions for myself, churning around in my head as I shower and shave and change into my best jeans and shirt. I spend half an hour blow-drying my hair and braiding it down my back, then duck into Kate's room to check how I look.

It occurs to me, standing there in her spacious, well-lit room and staring at myself in her full-length mirror, that I don't want to do this. She was right, completely right, as usual. The last time I saw Christian, he left me shaking and crying, feeling a strange hollow dirtiness that I never want to feel again. I shouldn't be dressing up for him, or hurrying out of work to meet him, or talking to him at all. I should close the book on this whole mess, forget Christian Grey ever strolled into my life with that insolent grace, and move on. I should go home, finish packing, and spend the night drinking tea and reading Trollope, the way I would have before any of this happened.

And yet, ten minutes later, I'm on my way to the Heathman, and the only concession I've made to my doubts is a promise to myself that I won't let him distract me with sex. It's not a promise I'm optimistic about keeping. Even after what happened the other day, I know that I want him. That raw animal magnetism isn't going to have gone away just because of some unfortunate misunderstanding. If he propositions me, I don't think I have the willpower not to leap at the chance. All I can do is hope he doesn't offer. _He probably doesn't want to, anyway_ , I tell myself as firmly as I can. _After that performance, he probably hardly wants to look at you_. And part of me thinks that would be best. It's the same part which, remembering that he liked my hair down, is even now anxiously at work winding my long braid into a bun on top of my head. _Make him not want you. Make him walk away. Then this can all be over_.

But if it's all over, what then? Spend the rest of my life wondering what could have happened, if Kate hadn't been in the house, if I'd had the sense to keep my mouth shut, if that email hadn't brought him around to my house? Always be wondering whether I'll ever get another chance as good as this, another man so handsome and generous and willing to put up with me? Never see him again? I don't want that. No matter what I tell myself, I don't. He's found a handhold somewhere deep down in my subconscious mind, and I don't think I'll ever be able to shake the need to see him. I should go home. But instead, I go to his hotel.

He's waiting in the lounge, louche and graceful as always, and when I see him, my mouth goes dry. It's not just that he's handsome – although he _is_ , he really is, leaning idolently against the bar looking like a GQ model. No, what clogs up my throat and tightens my chest is something simultaneously much simpler and much, much more complicated: this is the first time I've seen him since everything went wrong. It's like the weight of all the things I should say, all the conflicting emotions, all the apologies and recriminations and pleas, are pinning my tongue to the bottom of my suddenly arid mouth, and I can't let out even a squeak.

Unsurprisingly, he doesn't seem to have any such qualms. He moves over to me with that liquid ease he has, leaning down to press a kiss to my cheek. His lips burn, and I am painfully aware of the spot where he touched me even after he withdraws.

“You look... stunning,” he says, and I am at once gratified and alarmed to hear the catch in his voice. “A vision.” He looks as though he might say something more, but instead, he simply takes my arm, leading me to a booth in the corner. I can feel the tension thrumming through him, and it startles me to think that he might be as nervous as I am.

“What would you like to drink, Miss Steele?” he asks as I slide into my seat. Honestly, I'm amazed he's asking. Maybe he _is_ learning.

“Um...” _Inspired, Ana._ But I really don't know. Is this a tea-and-biscuits kind of affair, or a wine-and-nibbles one, or one I'm going to have to drink more heavily to get through? Eventually, trapped in his unrelenting gaze, I settle for “Whatever you're having, please.”

He looks amused, although I don't think I'm imagining the edge of tension under the surface. “An excellent choice, Miss Steele,” he says smoothly, signalling for the waiter. “They have a particularly good wine cellar here.” He turns away briefly to talk to the waiter, suddenly curt and brusque, then slips into the seat opposite me. His fingers steepled in front of his face, he meets my eyes. I don't really want to make eye contact, but I don't have a choice; that indefinable magnetism is still very much active between us, dragging me towards him, and I am as trapped in his eyes as a mouse would be by a snake. I swallow, hard, and for a long time, both of us are silent.

That silence is broken by the return of the waiter, whose face is a study in blankness as he deposits two glasses of white wine on the table, along with a bowl of mixed nuts and another of olives. “Will there be anything else, sir? Madam?”

“No. Leave us alone, please.” Again, all the warmth has gone from Christian's voice. The waiter leaves, unhurriedly but with palpable relief, and we are alone again. Christian leans forwards, reaching for an olive. “Are you nervous, Anastasia?”

What a stupid question. Of course I'm nervous! My heart is thundering so loudly I'm amazed that the entire lounge hasn't heard it, my bare neck prickles with sweat, and I'm all but paralysed. But the nervousness has closed my throat again, and I can only reply with a nod, reaching for my wine in the hope that a drink will help me breathe.

“Me too,” he confides quietly. Although I'd already guessed that, it still surprises me – not just that he's nervous, but that he's willing to admit it. “There's so much we have to talk about. So much I have to say to you. And we still haven't discussed the contract I gave you.”

I splutter inelegantly on my wine. “The... the contract? So you still want to...?”

“If you do.” His grey eyes bore into mine, and I see a hesitance there that I haven't seen before. “What happened the other day was... unfortunate, to say the least. But, Miss Steele, I want you. Quite desperately, in fact. And I can't possibly blame you for panicking. So if you want me, then... yes. I want you.”

That revelation, so shockingly unexpected and yet delivered so matter-of-factly, knocks all the wind out of me. I am distantly aware that my mouth is opening and closing silently, like a fish's, as I stare wide-eyed at him across the table. I stammer and stutter, unable to make any sense of what he's just said. What sticks with me is the last bit. He wants me. _And I want you too, Christian. If you wanted me right here and now, on the table in the Heathman's lounge, I wouldn't even hesitate_. That's a terrifying thought, and yet a surprisingly erotic one. I rub my thighs together, biting my lip. Erotic is the last thing I need right now.

He's watching me with transparent amusement, his full lips parted as he bites down on an olive. It's as though he can see right through me, and knows the effect his words have had on me in intimate detail. Like he, too, is considering saying fuck it to all this sensible adult discussion, and taking me on the table right now instead.

_Okay, seriously,_ I tell myself firmly, giving myself a mental slap in the face,  _stop thinking about the table thing._ Easier said than done, but I manage to force it down, reaching for my wine again. When I've taken a mouthful, and the cool sharpness of it has given me something to concentrate on, I finally manage to make words.

“I do,” I say quietly, chewing on my lip. “I mean, I don't... I want to be with you. The rest... I don't know.”

He nods, his beautiful face soft. “You said you wanted to take it slower,” he says, picking a nut out of the bowl and turning it thoughtfully between his manicured fingers. “I understand that. And I'm willing to try, if you just tell me what it is you want.  _But_ ,” he adds, with a sudden mischievous smile which makes my heart flutter, “you do make it very hard when you keep biting your lip like that. I've told you what that does to me.”

Oh.  _Oh_ . Suddenly very aware of the gentle pressure of my teeth, I release my lip, casting my eyes downwards as I murmur an apology. Christian reaches out, his long fingers cool and soft as he takes hold of my chin, lifting my face to his.

“Don't apologise,” he says softly, his voice low and rich as molasses. “You're a beautiful woman, Miss Steele. Is it any wonder that I have to ask things like this of you? I'm having enough trouble containing myself as it is.” And while I'm still processing that, wonderstruck and thoroughly shaken, he lets go of my face and settles back in his seat, all business again. “We do have to talk about the other night, though. And about your roommate. Has she told anyone? _Will_ she tell anyone?”

I shake my head with a certainty I don't feel. “She said that...” I begin, and realise just how thin the ice that I'm treading is. I can't tell him what she said about rape – he'd be so hurt, so insulted, and whatever fragile peace we've made would be shattered. Nor do I want to tell him about our conversation in general. That was private. Some things, even Christian Grey shouldn't have access to. So I hesitate, taking another sip of wine to cover my uncertainty. “She said she didn't want to put me in harm's way. She's not going to publicise it, I promise. I won't let her.”

He nods, assessing me coolly. I think he's satisfied by my response, but it's hard to tell. “Does she know you're here now?” he asks at last, sipping his own wine.

I shake my head again, bite my lip, think better of biting my lip, and take an olive to bite down on instead. “I told her I was going to the library. She doesn't want me seeing you any more.” A horrible thought occurs, one which should have dawned on me long ago. If we  _do_ start seeing each other, what on earth am I going to tell Kate? I can't just keep lying to her. She's my best friend.

Christian seems to know exactly what's going through my mind. Reaching across the table, he lays his hand on mine. “Is it really any of her business?” he asks, his thumb running gentle circles on the side of my wrist. “Don't take this the wrong way, Anastasia, but it seems to me that Miss Kavanagh is very... jealous, shall we say. She doesn't want to share you. That's something I can understand.” He gives me a wry, lopsided smile, apparently unaware of the anxiety prickling down my spine. It's like he knows what she said to me, like he knows that she has an interest in me outside friendship. But he  _can't_ know that.  _And what if he's right_ ? But he's not done yet. “She's your friend, Miss Steele, not your handler. You don't have to tell her everything, especially not when it would only upset her. Listen, I'll tell you what – Elliot says she's going on holiday soon. Right?”

“Right.” My lips feel oddly numb, and it comes out slightly slurred.

“Then how about this: we take this relationship for a... a test run, if you like, while she's away. She doesn't need to know, not until you're certain. When she comes back, you can make up your mind. How does that sound?”

It sounds like putting off the inevitable to me. At the same time, he has a point. I certainly can't confront Kate about it while everyone's so mixed-up. She'll be mellowed out after her trip to Barbados, and I'll have a better idea of what I want. I nod. “That sounds like a very good idea,” I say, turning my hand over to hold his. “I...” I can't find the words to finish that sentence. I want to pour it all out on him; my anxiety, my regret, my relief and longing and trepidation, everything he's brought boiling up to the surface. I want him to understand what a huge step this is for me – how frightening and how exciting. I want him to know how happy he makes me, and how desperate, and how sorry I am that I hurt all of us the other night. But all the things I want to say trip over each other and stick in a great lump in my throat, and I'm struck dumb.

He seems to understand, though. In the curl of his smile, I read a lot of my own feelings reflected in him, just as unverbalised and just as huge. His fingers tighten on mine, his expression intent. “I'm glad,” he says softly, leaning in across the table. “You don't know how glad, Anastasia. That you've decided to give me a second chance... I don't have the words.”

Words in general seem in short supply just now. I don't think either of us needs them. We have looks, and the touch of our hands, and the crackling unspoken want in the air between us. With all that, who needs words to know that something new is starting?

 


	16. Chapter 16

**16**

I'm not hungry, but he won't take no for an answer; he's already booked us a private dining room, and he insists on buying me dinner. I'd prefer to eat downstairs, with the rest of the clientele, or even at home, but our relationship is strained enough already and I'm not about to risk it. A waiter in full livery leads us into a small – by Heathman standards – room, wood-panelled and warmly coloured. The table is laid with fine silver and crystal glasses, its white rose centrepiece echoing the chandelier overhead. Everything is so rich and luxurious that I start to feel a little giddy, at once too small for these high ceilings and rich settings, and too big and clumsy for the delicacy of it all.

Christian, of course, looks right at home. He slides elegantly into the seat opposite me while I'm still cringing at the waiter's servile attitude, and watches me with some amusement. When the young man's taken his leave – without leaving us menus, I note – Christian steeples his fingers and raises one eyebrow at me. “I told you. Don't bite your lip.”

I hadn't even realised I was. Releasing my lip guiltily, I blush and look away, taking a long swallow of my wine. I didn't come prepared for this. “What, um. What did you want to talk about?” I ask, to fill the silence which stretches, charged and tense, between us.

“Well...” Christian smiles, a predatory smirk. “If you're really going to try this, then we have to go through the contract. Like I told you to. What issues did you have?”

“What...” I repeat, and shake my head. This is too much. “Christian, you gave me a _book_. I can't remember all that off the top of my head, let alone pick it apart.”

Christian looks almost childishly crestfallen, like I've stolen his new toy. Crestfallen, and under that, rather angry. He doesn't say anything, or scowl or snap or anything like that, but it's like I can see the irritation coursing under his skin. Thankfully, that only lasts a moment before his expression clears and he pulls out his smartphone, tapping away. I bite back the urge to make a sarcastic remark about the rudeness of having his phone out at dinner, which is just as well, since it turns out to be for my benefit. After a moment, he turns the phone around and places it in front of me. Open on the screen is the contract, in PDF form.

Well. That's one way to deal with it.

“I kind of thought I'd just... figure it out at home?” I say lamely.

Christian's smile is fond, but also surprisingly steely. “Because that worked out so well for us last time, Miss Steele.”

I fidget, sigh, and relent. “Okay. But we might not get through all of it.”

The steel in his smile is gone so quickly I wonder whether I imagined it, and he waves a hand graciously. “That's all right. I just think we should make a start, don't you?”

I'm not so sure of that. He's caught me wrong-footed, and it's hard to be upfront and brave without the comfort of a computer screen between us. But I brought this on myself, didn't I? If I'd done as he asked to start with, I wouldn't be here. “Okay,” I say again, and turn my attention to the smartphone screen. I don't realise for a moment that I'm chewing my lip, and when I do, I quickly stop, eliciting a low chuckle from Mr Smugness Grey. My face heats, and in a weird way, that gives me the courage to speak up. It's better than silence. “Uh, this first clause. It says this is a binding contract between us.”

“Yes, it does.”

“Well, binding how?” I glance up at him, but his face is unreadable, and I'm reminded that he's a much more seasoned negotiator than I am. This could be difficult. Rather guiltily, I wish Kate were here. She's much better-equipped for this than I am. “I mean, it's not legally enforceable, right? It's not like the NDA?”

“The NDA being legally enforceable didn't seem to stop you breaking it,” Christian mocks gently, but reaches over to squeeze my hand when he sees me blush at that. “Sorry. I shouldn't have joked about that. This one isn't like the NDA, no. It's just an agreement.”

“A binding one?” But I'm starting to feel stupid. Maybe I'm just misunderstanding it. Maybe 'binding' means something different to a businessman. How would I know? I'm not a law student, or a CEO.

Christian laughs low in his throat, patting the back of my hand. “If it bothers you so much,” he says at last, in a humouring-the-underling kind of voice, “I'll redraft that clause, and cut that out. All right?”

“All right.” I'm willing to overlook his patronising tone of voice for that little victory. I offer him a smile, turning my hand over to take his. “Thank you.”

“This contract's for both of us, Anastasia. I want you to be comfortable with it.” Christian catches my gaze and holds it, his almond-shaped eyes boring into mine. He has remarkably long eyelashes, I notice with a curious clarity. “That's why we have to have this talk. So we can both be comfortable.”

My heart's picked up the pace a little. Nodding shyly, I return my attention to the contract, scanning it quickly. The next few clauses don't jump out as problematic – just your standard legal guff about confidentiality and consent and any breach of contract rendering it void – but there's one which I think needs addressing. “This bit here, about diseases. I don't _think_ I have any, but I've never... I mean, am I going to have to get tested?”

“I should have known you'd need that.” Christian nods, stroking his chin. “May I?” And without waiting for a reply, he reaches over to pluck the phone off the tablecloth, his slender fingers deft as he taps away at the keys. After a minute or so, he passes it back to me with a smile. “There. I've emailed Dr Greene. She's the best Ob/Gyn in Seattle. She'll take care of all that, and contraception too, if you need it. All right?”

I hesitate for just a moment, then nod. I'm not so sure about letting someone else pick my doctor out for me, but on the other hand, he's offering much better than I'd get if I dropped in to Planned Parenthood, and I know that if I'm left to my own devices I'll put it off indefinitely anyway. “You've been tested, right?” It feels intrusive just to ask.

“Every six months. So have all my partners. And I've never had any blood transfusions, and I don't take drugs. In fact, I'm vehemently anti-drugs. I have a strict no-tolerance policy with regards to drugs for all my employees, and I insist on random drug testing.”

“I didn't ask about your business policies, you insufferable control freak,” is something I definitely do _not_ say, although I'm tempted. Instead, I just nod again. I'm biting my lip, but he's just going to have to deal with it. There's only so much of my behaviour I can keep in check at once. Thankfully, just then, the waiter returns.

“I hope you like oysters,” Christian comments as the waiter sets a plate of them in front of them.

“I've never eaten them,” I tell him truthfully.

“Really? Well, all you do is tip and swallow.” He smirks at me, raising one eyebrow in a frankly licentious way, and reaches for one. “Do you think you can manage that, Miss Steele?”

“You're shameless,” I tell him, but I'm smiling as I mimic him, squeezing lemon juice onto an oyster and tipping it into my mouth. It slips down my throat like a glob of phlegm, salty and fleshy. I swallow and lick saltwater and lemon juice off my lips, then reach for my wine.

Christian's watching me intently. “Well?”

“More for you,” I reply wryly, washing away the slimy feeling from the back of my throat. “Sorry.”

For a moment, almost too short for me to be certain, he looks positively thunderous, and then the sweet smile's back. “It's all right. Why don't you keep reading while I finish these?”

I can't help feeling that he wants me to demur, but I'm more than happy to turn my attention away from him and the oysters for a moment. It doesn't take much reading before I come across another issue. “ _The Submissive is to serve and obey the Dominant in all things_ ,” I quote, looking up at him from under my lashes. “And _without query or hesitation_? I don't know if I can do that.”

He puts down his wineglass, folding his hands in his lap, and leans towards me. “You can leave at any time,” he says softly, his eyes searching my face intently. “If you go, however, that's it. And if you stay, I want you to obey me. _Need_ you to obey me. Think of it as roleplay, Anastasia.”

 _Think of it as a giant red warning sign_ , says a little voice in my head which sounds suspiciously like Kate. _If you go, that's it. So go. Put this whole thing behind you_. But if I do that, then all this struggling and crying over getting him back will have been for nothing. I'm not ready to give up so easily. I'm too stubborn and too proud. Instead, I nod slowly, trying not to feel the lump in my throat. It's probably just that damn oyster. “But I'm worried you'll hurt me,” I say, and my voice sounds wispy and pathetic even to me.

Christian frowns, hurt and concern vying for primacy in his expression. “Hurt you? Hurt you how? Is this because of what happened the other night?”

“No. Maybe. I just... You said you've hurt someone before,” I say defensively, remembering.

“Yes, I have. It was a long time ago.”

 _But it still happened_ , I want to scream. _How am I supposed to know it won't happen again? Especially if you don't hear me when I say no?_ Aloud, all I say, in a slightly shaky voice, is “How did you hurt them?”

“I suspended her from my playroom ceiling. Rope play. One of the ropes was tied too tightly.”

I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. Not my lip – he'd better appreciate that effort. “And is that the only time? You've never...”

“Anastasia.” He's taut, tense, a muscle jumping in his throat. “Once somebody signs that contract, they're mine, as long as it lasts. I take good care of my things. Please, trust me.”

Easier said than done. After everything that's happened, I don't even trust myself. But I agreed to try. I can't back out now. With a reluctant sigh, I nod. “I really can't talk you out of the total-obedience thing?”

“You really can't.” He looks at me with sympathy, but also a boyish kind of hope which makes him even more achingly handsome than usual.

“Then okay. I'll try.” I look back down at the contract as he relaxes. “I take it we're changing the 'Commencement and Term' bit?”

“Sure, sure.” He waves his hand dismissively, reaching for his glass. “Whatever you like. I'm just glad you're willing to give me a chance. You're a brave, brave girl.”

 _No I'm not,_ I think despairingly. _I'm terrified_. But I manage to force a smile, chewing on the inside of my cheek. “You didn't leave me much choice.”

“You could have walked away.” He leans across the table, his hand coming out to cup my cheek. “It would have broken my heart, but you could have left me. I told you it was a choice.”

I smile again, shakily. His hand is very hot, and it seems almost to burn against my skin. “You should eat those oysters before all the ice melts,” I whisper, swallowing. “And I should finish reading this, shouldn't I?”

“Demanding as ever.” Christian's voice is husky with amusement, his thumb running gently over the ridge of my cheekbone. “All right. But, Anastasia... thank you. For taking this chance.” And then his hand's withdrawn, and I lower my eyes, still very conscious of his gaze on me.

There's a lot more to trawl through, about location and availability and Christian's role. I'm relieved to see that one of the sub-clauses deals pretty clearly with health and safety. If I'm going to put myself in his hands, at least he's got a responsibility to make sure I'm safe. Clause 15.5 gives me a lot of pause, though, and I look up at him. “Christian? Um, I get that the... the punishment's part of the whole deal, but I don't like this. This part where you don't have to tell me why you're doing it.” Emboldened by the fact that he doesn't immediately blow up at me, I press on. “Actually, I don't like the punishment thing in general. I mean, flogging? Whipping? Corporal punishment? That sounds...”

“Painful?” he suggests, and I nod. “There's a very fine line between pleasure and pain, Anastasia. They're two sides of the same coin, one not existing without the other.” _Oh, really?_ I think sceptically, but I bite my tongue and let him continue. “I can show you how pleasurable pain can be. You don't believe me now, but that's why I need you to trust me. There will be pain, but nothing you can't handle.”

“But how will you know if...” I start, then raise a hand, shaking my head. “No, I know. I've got to trust you. Right?”

He smiles, showing perfect white teeth. “Right.” Taking another oyster, he lets it slide down his throat. How he can make that look so elegant, I don't understand. “And you said you'd trust me.”

I don't trust myself to speak. I just nod, reaching for my wine. “So I have to take the punishment part, too?”

“Please.”

This is starting to feel less like a negotiation and more like a mandate. But it _is_ only for a few weeks, while Kate's in Barbados. I can manage that. A test run, he called it. So let me test it. Gulping down the rest of my wine, I steel myself. “Okay. That part can stay.”

Christian smiles, a wide, boyish grin, and reaches across the table to take my hand. “I don't deserve you,” he says softly, lifting my hand and grazing his lips over my knuckles. “You brave, wonderful girl.”

I blush, but this time not out of embarrassment. _He can be quite the charmer when he wants_ , I think dryly, and I can't exactly complain. His chivalry is endearing, and by the time I go back to reading, I've quashed most of my disquiet by reminding myself that this is who he is. Chivalrous, charming. The rest is just kink.

When the waiter reappears to clear the table, I've almost finished reading the body of the contract, and there's not much else I can say to it. There's some things that rub me up the wrong way, like the clause that says I'm his possession while we're together, but I already know what he'll say if I bring it up, and I know I'll cave, so I let it go unremarked. I'm also not allowed to look him in the eyes or touch him, which I figure is part of the roleplay he mentioned. _Only a few weeks and then we can renegotiate_ , I remind myself, and say nothing. The contract also mentions safewords, and I can't help the nasty, sick feeling that an awful lot of pain could have been avoided if I'd known about them before. If only I'd read the stupid contract properly before I sent him that email.

As the waiter reaches discreetly past me for my plate, I delve back into the Tolkienesque appendices. Obedience? Well, we've already covered that. And sleep...

“More wine, Anastasia?” Christian's mellow voice cuts into my focus, and I look up, shaking my head.

“I have to drive.” Trying not to see the disappointment on his face, since he's clearly trying to hide it, I add to the waiter, “I'll have a glass of sparkling water, please.”

“Certainly, madam,” he replies gravely. “I'll bring it to you shortly.” And with that, he's gone, moving as silently and efficiently as an automaton. Left alone, Christian turns his full attention back to me.

“Where are you?” he asks, deceptively casual.

“Rules.” I glance down at the phone screen again. “I don't know that I'm okay with this, Christian. I mean, it's one thing when I'm with you, but this stuff? Sleep patterns? A list of foods? A personal trainer?”

“You'll need to be fit to keep up with me,” Christian says with a sidelong smirk, but I won't be so easily put off.

“That's not the point. Christian, this isn't like the obedience stuff, even the punishment stuff... that's only when I'm with you. That's roleplay, like you said. But I need to have my own life too.” I take a deep breath, steeling myself. “I won't do it. I'll do what you want when I'm with you, I'll be your _possession_ when I'm with you, but I'm not doing this. And that's _my_ ultimatum. You let me do my own thing when I'm not with you, or I'll leave and do my own thing all the time.” I'm shocked at my own audacity. Blood is thundering in my ears, and I can't look directly at him, but I also can't let him have this one. I've got a _life_. I don't have time for – I glance back at the contract – hour-long training sessions four times a week, or running all my clothing choices by him, or going to his favoured beauty salon whenever he wants me too.

I glance at him, my heart lodged firmly in my throat, and am surprised to see him smiling. “You drive a hard bargain, Miss Steele. Are you _sure_ I can't offer you a job?”

“Just as sure as I was the last two times you asked,” I say, but I can feel myself relax a little, even smiling in return. “Look, I'll agree to this stuff about being modest and respectful and all that. And I don't smoke or take drugs or anything you've forbidden _anyway_ , so I'll agree to that. But I'm not joining some... some gym class for submissives, and I'm not letting you pick my fashion choices, and I'm _definitely_ not letting you buy all this stuff for me.”

“As if you could stop me.” Christian narrows his eyes for a moment, but then he relaxes back into his seat. “Anastasia, these rules are for your own sake. I told you, I take care of my things. I want to look after your health and fitness, that's all.”

I am resolute. I have to be resolute about _something_ , after all. “I can look after my own health and fitness,” I retort, and break off, looking up as the waiter slides a glass of water in front of me and starts to set out the entree. “Thank you.”

Christian doesn't even glance at the waiter, and, unlike me, seems unashamed to talk about our arrangement in front of him. “At least let me buy you clothes for when you're with me. And take you to the beauty salon.”

“If I do,” I say warily, “will you take out the rest? The sleep, the food, the exercise?”

He sighs. “Nothing I say is going to change your mind, is it?”

“Not even a little.” I allow myself a smile.

“All right, then. For now, I'll take them out. But, Anastasia, I want you to eat properly and get enough sleep anyway. For me. Can you do that?”

“I'll try.” I smile at him, relieved. That was easier than I expected. “I'm sorry, I just... it's all a bit much for me.”

“I know,” he says sympathetically, reaching for his knife and fork. “Put that aside for now. All the rest is just details anyway. Let's eat.”

I've never felt less hungry, but I do my best to show willing, forcing down half a plateful of the black cod and asparagus. It's rich food, though, and my stomach aches; eventually, I give up, twitching my knife and fork together. “I'm full. Sorry.”

“You said you'd try to eat enough.” His grey eyes are intense, judgemental.

“And I have.” I look away, unnerved by the steel in his gaze. “I just don't eat much, that's all.”

“I need you fit and healthy, Anastasia.”

“You said.”

“And right now,” he goes on as if I hadn't spoken, “I need you in my bedroom, naked on your knees.”

That pulls me up short. For a moment, I gape, eyes wide, surroundings forgotten. Something clenches deep inside, and I rub my thighs together awkwardly. “You're not fighting fair,” I manage, aware of how whiny I sound.

“I never do.” He's smirking, and god _dammit_ , no smirk should be so attractive. “I get what I want, Miss Steele. A fact that you'll soon learn.” Under the table, I feel his leg brush against mine. “If you were my sub, if you signed the contract, this would all be so much easier for you. All those decisions, all the thinking and worrying. Is this the right thing? Should it happen here? Can it happen now? If you were mine, you wouldn't have to worry about any of that detail. That's what I'd do as your Dom. And right here, right now, I know you want me, Anastasia.” That smirk of his widens, his eyes hooded and dark, his foot twining around my ankle. “Your body gives you away. You're practically panting, you're blushing, you're pressing your thighs together. You want me. And you can have me, if you just say the word.”

It's tempting. No, tempting doesn't even cover it. It's irresistible. The air of power and confidence he extrudes, the total focus on me, the eye contact... he's got me hypnotised, and I am so, so close to giving in. But I can't. I mustn't.

“Kate,” I say, through lips that are suddenly refusing to do as they're told. “I... she doesn't know I'm here. I can't stay.” I swallow hard, disengaging myself and standing up on legs like limp noodles. “And we both have the graduation ceremony tomorrow.”

He stands, too, moving a step or two towards me. “I could make you stay.”

“Yes, you could.” There's no point denying it. “It wouldn't even be that hard. But I don't want you to.”

He runs both hands back through his hair, shaking his head. “Liar,” he murmurs.

 _Yes. Yes, I'm lying, and frankly, Mr Sex-Is-A-Weapon, it's pretty rude of you to point that out._ I take a step back, pushing the phone across the table towards him, and pick up my bag. “I'll email you about the soft limits tomorrow. I promise. But right now, I have to get back.”

“You're impossible.” He takes another step closer, his hand coming up to cup my cheek, his thumb running gently over my lips. “I'm starting to think you don't have a submissive bone in your body.”

“Maybe I don't.” I can't make myself smile. It's hard enough to make myself breathe. He's magnetic, and it's taking all my energy just to keep my resolve, to get away from him before we end up fucking and sleeping. I don't want Kate to find out just because we're too horny to help ourselves – and, although I don't want to admit it, there's also a part of me that wants to get out for its own sake, a small frightened animal in the path of the silver-eyed predator.

“We'll find out,” he says, his voice low and rich, and kisses me. Despite my reservations, I can't hold back; I kiss back, my lips parting, my arms coming up around his shoulders as he pulls me flush against him. I can feel his half-erection through his smart pants, hear the rapid thump of his heart. Heat bakes out from him, and his shoulders are hard and tense and _real_. This is real. This is really happening, and I want nothing more than to stay.

But he pulls away, and I know he's right to. I have to leave.

“I'll escort you to the lobby,” he says, stepping back, his face once again impassive, and proffers his hand. My face burning, my heart thudding, I lace my fingers through his and follow him down to the lobby. While we wait for the valet to bring my car around, he stands by me, so close I can feel the warmth of him.

“Thank you for dinner,” I say shyly. “I'll see you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.” Christian smiles. “Oh, I hope so. And you're moving to Seattle this weekend, aren't you? Maybe I could see you then?”

“That might not be a good idea,” I apologise. “I mean... Kate...”

Just like that, the warmth and openness is gone from his face. “Of course. I see.” He looks away from me, out at the darkening sky. “It's getting cooler. Don't you have a jacket?”

“No.”

Visibly irritated, he shakes his head, shrugging off his own tailored jacket. “Here. I don't want you catching cold.”

“You don't have to,” I start to say, but then I see the look in his eyes and decide it's best not to argue. “Thank you.” I even let him put it on me, slipping it over my arms, his hands lingering a moment against my neck. The jacket hangs much too big on me, warm and loose and smelling of his cologne. It makes me smile, despite myself.

My car pulls up outside, and I have the rare pleasure of seeing Christian completely flabberghasted. He's staring at my old Beetle like he's seen a ghost. “ _That's_ what you drive?” he demands, as I take my keys back from the valet. “Is it roadworthy?”

“It's fine,” I assure him. “Wanda's tougher than she looks.”

“Will it make it to Seattle?”

“Of course she will.” I have to admit, I'm getting a little irritated – but not nearly as irritated as Christian, who's outright glaring at me as he tips the valet.

“Safely?”

“Yes! Safely!” I throw my hands up, meeting his eyes. “Okay, so she's a bit old. But she's mine, and she does just fine. Jose services her for me every month or two. She runs just fine.” That might be a slight overstatement, but he's being such an ass that I feel weirdly defensive of the old Beetle.

He seems unimpressed. “Oh, Anastasia. I think we can do better than this.”

It takes me a moment to process that, and then _I'm_ the one glaring. “You are not buying me a car. Don't you dare.”

“We'll see,” he says tersely, and hauls open the driver's door to help me in. I roll down the window to look at him, and he leans down to my level. “Drive safely.”

“I will,” I promise, and reach out of the window. He flinches away, and I belatedly remember the no-touching rule, and withdraw my hand. “I'll see you tomorrow, Christian.”

“Tomorrow,” he agrees, and steps back to let me drive away. I pull out of the lot slowly, not wanting to rush away, and watch him in my wing mirror until the Heathman disappears around the corner. Then I'm left to my own thoughts, and those are something I don't want to examine too closely. I don't know what I've just got myself into, but my mind keeps turning back to Faust. At least Faust sold his soul for something huge. I'm much cheaper. I'll sell myself for good sex and a guy who can make my knees go weak by looking at me.

And yet, when I'm home and sure that Kate's asleep, I don't lie awake dwelling on the bad choices I've made today, or all the stupid things I've done, the bridges I've burnt. I lie in my bed, eyes closed, and think of Christian's dark smirk and silver eyes as I finger myself. I know I shouldn't: there was a proviso in the contract about not masturbating without permission. But I haven't signed it just yet, and as I drift off into sleep, it's with a heady kind of joy. I've burnt bridges all right, but I'm building them too. And this – whatever it is – it's hot as hell. That, at least, I know.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**17**

The smug bastard works his way into my dreams. In fairness, that's not such a surprise, since I did fall asleep with my hand still down my pyjama bottoms from the thought of him, but it's still disconcerting. I wake up, horny and sweaty, at six AM, and roll over to try and recapture the dream, piecing together the fragments I remember. _Kneeling on the floor... the leather crop trailing over my bare tits... the feeling of his eyes on me..._

Rolling over, I bury my face in the pillow and cup my own breast through my thin summer pyjamas, wishing there was more to it than a dream. I've always had an active imagination, though. Maybe, if I really try, I can drag myself back into the dream... back into the room that's as red and warm as my cheeks feel, back to the dream-Christian staring down commandingly. Back to the shackles on my wrists, holding my hands apart, stopping me from covering myself. I am his property, his ornament, and I can feel the heat of his gaze echoed in the clenching muscles of my groin. I watch the leather strap of the riding crop, slick with my sweat, trace up over my heaving breasts and flick against one nipple, making me cry out. With a dark, low laugh, my master slides the crop back down to my belly, down to my tensed thighs, and slaps it against the mound of my crotch. It stings, and I flinch away, my legs automatically trying to close, although I know I mustn't. I know I have to stay where I was put. Where I was told. Sure enough, the crop is between my thighs, guiding my legs back apart before landing a stinging blow on my clitoris. I scream out, but it's not from pain – the pain is strong, but it's the sweetness that startles me into shouting, the pleasure that lances inwards from the blow.

Another laugh from above my bowed head, and although I've closed my eyes now, gasping for air, I can feel the crop's unhurried progress. Light, stinging blows trace a path up my belly, along the underside of my breasts, onto both nipples. Then the tip is under my chin and I turn my face up obediently, half-opening my eyes, overcome with arousal.

“You know I'm going to fuck you over,” Christian says, only it's Kate's voice, and the low purr in it makes me want to writhe and beg and do whatever he... she... wants. Anything. “But first, little lover, I'm going to straight-up fuck you.”

And that's when I pull myself out of the dream, before it gets any weirder. It takes so little effort that I think I must not actually have gone back to sleep at all – that is, until I look at the clock again and see that two and a half hours have gone by.

I have to admit to being kind of grumpy as I crawl out of my nice warm bed and my nice sexy thoughts into the harsh light of day. Stupid Kate and her stupid conversations working their way into my stupid sex dreams. I grump my way through my morning routine and stumble into the living room, only to find Kate lounging around with a cup of coffee, naked except for a bathrobe, her wet hair hanging rumpled around her shoulders. Wow, Kate. Way to make my awkwardly weird sex dreams even more awkward and weird. Biting down hard on my lip, I look away and head for the kettle. Tea, that's what I need. Tea, toast, and not to be reminded that my best friend is working her way into my sex fantasies.

“Wow. Anastasia Steele rises before noon. Mark the calendar!” Goddammit, Kate, stop drawing attention to your existence. And near-nudity. And near-nude existence.

I would like to note that I do a fucking fantastic job of acting normal, sticking my tongue out at her and rolling my eyes. (I said normal, not mature) “Not all of us are like to the fucking lark at break of day arising, Little Miss Smug.” Then, looking away quickly before she can see how totally out of it I am, “How's the speech? You all ready for the big day?”

“God, no.” She laughs – that full belly laugh that I've always found so infectious – and I hear her scrape her chair back and get up. “I'm shitting bricks, Ana. How about you?” And the laughter's out of her voice, just like that. “Ready to see him again?”

For a horrible, guilty moment, I'm sure she must know about my trysts with Christian, the rapprochement of the night before. I'm about to give in and confess everything when she adds, “You know, it's okay if you don't want to. He'll be right up on stage, way way away, and I'll be there for support afterwards if you need it.”

My laugh sounds horribly false and high. I'm sure she must notice something's wrong, but if she smells a rat, she's keeping it to herself. “Don't be silly,” I manage, not looking at her. “I'm over it. I'm over him. Don't worry about it.”

Thank god, I'm saved from further questioning by the pop of the toaster. By the time I've got my toast ready, the kettle's boiled, and when I've poured out my tea and bustled around the kitchen looking for the butter (which she's considerately hidden behind the cookie jar – on any other day an irritation, but this morning a welcome distraction), Kate's gone back to studying her speech. I eat my breakfast in the kitchen, feigning bleary sleepiness to avoid further conversation, and flee to the shower at the earliest possible opportunity.

Luckily for my frazzled nerves, Kate has to leave a good hour earlier than I do. This being Kate, the Queen of Last-Minute Panic, she actually leaves half an hour earlier than that, just in case. By that time, I've more or less shaken off the dream – which, after all, was just a dream – and can get over the residual awkwardness enough to wish her luck and give her a hug. “You'll do great,” I assure her with a smile that's hardly forced at all, stepping back and looking her up and down.

“Don't I always?” She tips me a little salute, turning towards the door. “I left your dress on my bed. Don't you dare wear it with trainers. I see you in nice sandals, or you're dead to me. See you on the other side!”

I laugh obediently, waving to her as she leaves, and duck into her room to pick up the dress she's lending me, and the handbag that goes with me. She was flatly obstinate about my not wearing jeans and a t-shirt – even a nice t-shirt – to my graduation, and although her clothes don't fit me perfectly, they do tend to suit me remarkably well. I have my suspicions that she buys them in specially. At least she can't use that excuse for shoes – her feet are several sizes bigger than mine, which is just as well, because then she can't make me dress up in six-inch heels or whatever. Now that would be a disaster waiting to happen.

I end up spending way longer over my shoe choices as a result, though. I'm trying to decide whether to wear the same kitten heels I wore to visit Christian, or whether that would give him and Kate the wrong message, when Ray rings the doorbell. Embarrassed by my own girliness, I let that shake me out of my shoe conundrum, and shove on the kitten heels before hurrying down to let him in. “Dad! Hey! Boy, is it nice to see you.” It's true, too, for all that it seems to throw him off. He's something solid in this shifting world, someone who neither knows nor cares about my love life, someone with whom I can sit down and spend the half-hour before I have to go drinking tea and chatting about his life and his problems instead of mine.

Honestly, by the time I leave Ray's side and head off to sit with the other graduates, I've almost forgotten about the whole mess. Christian, Kate, my stupid libido... all those are problems for another time. Right now, it's my graduation day, and I'm not going to waste it on stupid Harlequin-romance rogues with grey eyes and great abs. I fidget with the tassel of my cap, but it's not with the same nervous energy that's been dogging me all week – this is just graduation excitement.

Unfortunately, it's hard to avoid the convolutions of my love life when, at eleven o'clock, both the co-stars of this morning's dream mount the stage along with the professors. I've written off Kate's involvement by now, but looking at Christian, even from way back among the 'S' names, my mouth goes dry. Whatever else you can say about him – and honestly, I could write a goddamn book on reasons he's a bad idea – he is undeniably gorgeous. The copper glint to his hair is highlighted in the auditorium lights, his suit is perfectly tailored and shows off his slim, well-proportioned physique, and... fuck. Is that tie he's wearing...? It can't be. He's got to be mocking me. That fucking _tie_. I suddenly feel rather ill, and I don't think it's just the heat of the crowded auditorium.

With an effort, I force myself not to look at him as the applause dies away. I focus on the university chancellor, watching him with single-minded intensity as he drones through his speech. I think I might be the only person in the whole hall hanging on his every word. God knows it isn't scintillating stuff, but it keeps my mind off the Adonis sitting behind him. When his speech is over, I'm the first to start clapping, a half-beat before the rest of the auditorium picks it up – actually kind of embarrassing, when you think about it.

The chancellor shuffles his papers together and retires back to his seat. Kate takes the podium in his place, tossing her perfect golden curls back over her shoulder and smiling winningly. She doesn't rush, taking a moment for the room to settle, making sure she has everyone's attention, her perfectly-lined green eyes scanning the crowd. When at last she does launch into her speech, it's pitch-perfect, of course. I'm not sure how much is elocution lessons, how much is debate training, and how much is raw natural talent, but she's got the whole graduating class hanging on her every word. Every joke is perfectly-timed and answered with a ripple of laughter; every hushed moment falls just perfectly; every sentence is perfectly timed, and when she finishes, the crowd rises to its feet, applauding rapturously. I don't know how she does it – nobody should be allowed to be so good at everything – but I'm right there with the rest of them, whooping and cheering at the top of my lungs. Catching my eye through the crowd, Kate gives me a little thumbs-up and a slightly embarrassed smile, blushing visibly as she returns to her seat.

Whatever else is going on, it's wonderful to see her doing what she does best, holding the centre of attention effortlessly and charismatically like she was born to do. It's wonderful to see her blush and smile with pleasure and relief as she sits down, and wonderful to know that that's my friend, that's my _Kate_ , valedictorian and standing ovation winner. My whole heart feels lifted up with pride and gratitude. However complicated things might get, I'm incredibly lucky to have a friend like her. As I settle back into my seat, I'm smiling genuinely for the first time in days.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn't last. Before the applause has even died away, the chancellor's back at the podium to introduce our keynote speaker, and my smile falls off my face, a lead weight settling heavy in my belly as I'm reminded that my wonderful, talented friend Kate is sitting on the same stage as my wonderful, talented maybe-boyfriend. You know. The one she loathes and mistrusts. There's no way that today can possibly end well.

Sure enough, as Christian takes the stand, I can see Kate's expression sour. She pointedly doesn't look at him, and that makes it hard for _me_ to look at him, or focus on his speech, worried as I am about the obvious tension in the air. I'm busy focusing on her, half-expecting her to Hulk out at him any moment.

I catch bits and pieces of his speech – he's talking about the environmental sciences department, for some reason, and Darfur, and how it's a very personal journey for him because he's known what it's like to be hungry (yeah, sure) – but it's distant and disconnected, distracted as I am by Kate's glowering and the way his eyes keep finding me. I'm taken by surprise when the applause starts, and this time it's my turn to be half a beat behind everyone else, joining in the warm applause without thinking. He's a good speaker, every bit as charismatic and well-timed as Kate, and it's not his fault that I totally zoned out. From the response, I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who wasn't caught up in his speech. On the other hand, it's his own stupid fault for filling my head with all those other worries. Stupid Christian. Stupid speeches. Stupid Ana for making even this about your love life.

I'm glad for the respite when we start the long, tedious process of collecting degrees. There are over four hundred to be given out, and I'm not exactly high in the alphabet, so I have a good hour to sit and collect myself. Eventually, I even manage to turn my nerves and overthinking into a few periods of good old-fashioned ogling. Never before have I quite understood the appeal of a good-looking man in a suit, and he's the centre of attention, so it's okay to stare. Kate's relaxed a little, and I'm just enjoying the eye candy. Except then we're at the 'S' names, and the rest break from personal drama is officially over.

I make my way up onto stage behind a nervously giggling pair of girls, and take a deep breath. Ogling Christian from the audience is one thing, but even at this distance, I can feel the power of his presence, and I'm suddenly horribly aware of Kate watching me, Ray watching me, everyone watching me. I'm self-conscious at the best of times, but this is something else. My legs feel like wet rubber, my hands are shaking, and he is _definitely_ going to laugh at how sweaty my palms are. I can't deal with contact from him. It's hard enough to deal with the feelings it brings up even when we're alone. Here? Now? On a stage in front of a thousand people?

My name has to be called twice, I'm panicking so hard. I stumble onto the stage, regretting my decision to wear any kind of heels, and then I'm in front of him and his storm-grey eyes are locked to mine. He shakes my hand, his palm cool and dry against my sweat-slicked one, and gives me that white-toothed smile that holds so many darkly erotic promises. _Not fair,_ I think feebly, and return it with a rictus of my own.

“Congratulations, Miss Steele,” he says, just as cool and collected as he's been with every other student. As he presses my degree into my hand, though, he leans in just a little, his mouth close to my ear. “Be back here in an hour. I want to peel that dress off you.”

I almost faint. That's not an exaggeration. I can't believe his brazenness – we're on stage, in front of a thousand people, with Kate right next to us and my stepdad in the audience! - and I want to tell him where to shove his secret rendezvous. But how can I? Anything I say will only make the situation worse. Besides, my throat's sealed itself shut, and he's already back to smooth professionalism, turning to the boy behind me. “Mr Stein. Congratulations.”

Somehow, I manage to stagger off the stage and back to my seat without collapsing. One of the giggly girls leans over to me with a look of concern, touching my arm. “You okay? You look hella pale.”

“I'm okay,” I lie through my teeth, wiping my sweaty hand on my skirt and forcing a smile. “It's just... a big deal, you know?”

“Don't I just!” She smiles back at me and withdraws her hand. “Hot, too, huh? I've got some water in my bag, if you need it. Just say the word.”

I consider for a moment, then nod. “Actually, that might be just what I need. Thanks.”

It does help, if only a little. I pass the bottle back to the girl, whose degree certificate reads Jasmine Shukri, with a grateful smile, and try to focus on the ceremony. It's interminable, though. By the time it's over, nearly an hour later, I can't even pretend interest any more. Jasmine and her friend Alice have drawn me into their murmured conversation, and we only pay attention to the proceedings any more when one of our friends is being called up. At last, _finally_ , Simeon Zamisa leaves the stage, the chancellor gives a few final words, and the endless ceremony ends. I'm pretty sure at least half of the thunderous applause comes from general relief at being allowed to leave for alcohol and fresh air. In that order.

As I stand and wait for our row to disperse, I see Kate heading my way, flushed and not a little sweaty herself. Thanking Jasmine for her concern one more time, I head over to meet Kate as soon as I can.

“Your speech was great,” I tell her with a smile, giving her a brief and rather sweaty hug as we turn to leave.

“It was, wasn't it?” She beams, slinging her arm around my shoulders. “Look at us, Ana. We're _adults_!” But the light moment doesn't last long. Arm still around my bare shoulders, she looks down at me with obvious concern. “You are okay, right? You looked really faint coming offstage. What did he say to you?”

“Nothing,” I say. I hate lying to her, and I hate it even more because she's clearly not buying it. Thank heavens for Ray, who chooses that moment to start down the bleachers towards us. I pull her along with me as I head over to meet him, hoping this is enough of a distraction.

“Hey, Annie. Congratulations.” Ray gives me an awkward hug as I get within reach. He never has been one for physical affection. _Remind you of someone?_ a snide voice in my head sniggers, and I squash it down quickly. The last thing I need is for things to get more Freudian.

“Thanks, Dad.” I hug him back, but only briefly, mindful of his discomfort. That he hugged me at all shows an impressive depth of emotion. “Want to come and get a drink in the marquee? Or head out?” _Anywhere that's not here_.

“Drink. Definitely,” he replies at once. “I've just sat for three hours listening to college jabber. I need a cold one.”

“We'd better hurry up, then.” Kate jabs her thumb at the door, packed with people thronging out of the auditorium. “Before the bar crowds get to be six men deep.”

Ray smiles a little, nodding, and pulls a digital camera out of his pocket. “One for the album first?”

“Does it mean I can take the cap and gown off afterwards?” I ask with a wry grimace, taking up my position next to Kate so he can line up the shot. “These things are way too warm. And dorky.”

“So no change there, then,” Kate teases, slinging her arm around me again and smiling as Ray snaps several photos. As soon as he lowers the camera, she's got my arm and is dragging me towards the exit, Ray close behind. “Come on. Drinks all around!”

“Not until you've got your family here. It's your day as well as Annie's,” Ray tells her firmly, and I feel a warm rush of love for him. I know he took some time to get his head around Kate being... well, Kate, and that there's a level on which she still makes him uncomfortable. Given how blunt he is about other things, I appreciate the effort he's making to make her feel included.

Kate smiles at him, shrugging one shoulder. “They'll find me. I'm not easy to miss.” It's true. If nothing else, she's even taller than usual, given her designer platform heels; she towers head and shoulders over Ray. And, sure enough, we haven't been at the bar five minutes before she squeals with delight, and I turn to see her hugging her brother.

“When did you get back?” she asks, clearly delighted, and laughs.

“Last week.” He grins – the same smile as hers, the same glint in his green eyes, and lets go of her to pull me into a hug as well. “Couldn't miss my sister's big speech, could I? Hey, Ana. Long time no see. Congratulations!”

“Thanks, Ethan.” I grin up at him, pulling away a little. His resemblance to Kate is uncanny, the two-year age gap notwithstanding. They must have looked confusingly identical before she transitioned, and I can see Ray drawing the same conclusion, that discomfort creeping back into his face.

Hoping to cut that off at source, I turn between to two of them. “Ethan, this is my stepdad, Ray. Dad, this is Kate's brother Ethan. He's been off gallivanting around Europe, so...”

“Ooh. _Gallivanting_. I like that.” Ethan laughs, shaking Ray's hand warmly. “Nice to meet you. Mr Steele. I've heard a lot about you.”

“I'm afraid I can't say the same.” Ray shoots me a reproachful look, but he's smiling a little again. “Great to meet you, though. Where in Europe?”

And they're off. It's really remarkably nice, relaxing at the bar, the electric excitement in the air around us, just catching up. A few minutes later, Kate's parents come and join us, drinks in hand, and there are congratulations and hugs all around. I haven't seen them since I went to stay at their condo last spring, and we spend the next forty minutes or so catching up, chatting about Mr Kavanagh's rowing squad at Harvard and Ms Kavanagh's battle with the bats in their attic. Kate's just relating the story of the nightmare she had getting the paper ready for graduation – carefully avoiding, I notice, all mention of her big centrepiece article – when Ray claps his hands together sharply. “Lunch?”

“Sure.” I break off our conversation to look over at him, smiling, then back to Kate and her parents. “Do you guys want to come?”

“I thought we could catch up on our own, if that's okay?” Kate's the one to answer, obviously. She's also giving me a very significant look, although I'm not entirely sure _what_ it signifies. “And you can catch up with... whatever you guys need to catch up on.”

Oh. Right. I see what she's driving at, and _no_ , Kate, like hell am I going to talk to Ray of all people about what happened. What you _think_ happened. I pull a face at her, but nod. “Okay. I'll see you this evening, then?”

“You are getting dragged out to every bar in town,” she replies cheerfully, all significant looks gone in favour of her usual friendly grin. “Graduation offers on shots! Don't judge me,” I hear her add to her parents as Ray and I leave the marquee, “you know you did way worse at college.”

I smile at that, looping my arm through Ray's. Kate's boundless self-confidence is always a good pick-me-up, even if I'm always going to wish I had a fraction of it. Ray and I don't talk as we head across the campus, through the thinning crowds. That's okay. He's the stoic type, and it's kind of nice to have _someone_ in my life like that. My kitten heels sink into the grass as we cut across the lawn, my cap and gown bundled under my arm, and I actually feel just how I imagined graduation should feel – bubbly as the cheap wine they served in the marquee, hot and sticky and apprehensive about what lies ahead, but also accomplished. Proud. _Happy_.

Then I see Christian across the quad, glaring at me so fiercely I'm amazed I don't spontaneously combust, and my blood runs cold.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a while to get to, and I'm sorry about that - between school, illness, and other commitments, life's been rabbit-punching me repeatedly. But hopefully the chapter's worth the wait!  
> Thanks to Amatyultare256, who kindly volunteered to go through this and help me Americanise it, along with a few other phrasing and clarity changes. I've decided not to change the spelling, because it sends my internal (and external!) spellchecker totally nuts, but hopefully her input will make Anastasia's voice a bit more authentic. All praise!  
> Sorry for blathering. Enjoy the chapter. :)

**18**

“Call your mom.” Ray drops me off at the door to my apartment, patting me awkwardly on the arm. He's even worse at goodbyes than at hellos, and normally that would amuse me, but after the day I've had, I'm honestly too tired to be anything but fond.

“I will. Thanks for coming, Dad.” I manage a smile, putting my hand over his for a moment.

“Wouldn't have missed it for the world, Annie. You make me so proud.”

Oh, no. Goddammit, no. I am not going to get all weepy and emotional _again_. But despite my (admittedly pretty poor) resolve, I can already feel the tears pooling in my eyes. I throw my arms around him, clinging to him, and press my face against his rumpled dress shirt. To his credit, despite his obvious bemusement he doesn't hesitate in returning the hug.

“Hey, Annie, sweetheart... Big old day, huh? Want me to come in and make you some tea?”

Ah, yes. Tea. The famed Ray Steele panacea. I have to laugh – one day, he might realise that tea doesn't cure literally all the world's ills, but apparently not today. “I'm good. Really, I'm okay.” If he _does_ come in and make tea, it'll only lead to hours of excruciatingly awkward silence as he tries to find excuses to leave and get back on the road. I know my dad well enough to know that. Or, worse, he'll ask the right questions and I'll end up spilling the whole mess of a situation on him.

“You sure?”

“Sure.” I pull away from his embrace, wiping my eyes and giving him a smile. “It was great to see you, Dad. I'll come and visit when I'm in Seattle.”

“Good luck with the interviews. Look after yourself, okay, Annie?”

“Sure thing.” Smiling, I turn to let myself into the apartment.

I am surprised when he hesitates there for a moment, then says “Love you, Annie.”

That's not like him. Too demonstrative, too soft. Does he know something's up? I turn back to him, trying to ignore the tears pricking at my eyes again, and give him a genuine smile. “Love you too, Dad.”

He looks for a moment like he might say something; his jaw flexes subtly, his brown eyes narrowing, but he stays silent. Instead, with an awkward smile, he gives me a little wave and turns to head back to the car. I'm left at the door, waving him off as he drives away, and wondering what that was about. Was it just because I got emotional? Or does he know there's more to it than excitement over graduation? Ray isn't normally the most sensitive soul in the world, but he has been known to have moments of insight.

As his taillights fade into the dusk, I do my best to shake off the worry, heading back into my apartment. Inside, I plug my phone in to charge and make myself some tea – okay, so maybe a little of Ray's faith in the power of tea might have rubbed off on me – as I try to sort through the crazy events of the day. I imagine graduation is a bit crazy for everyone, but not everyone has a psycho stalker boyfriend glaring at them throughout the whole thing. God, he looked livid. I'm going to have to run some damage control on the situation if I don't want to end up black and blue from that twitchy palm of his.

As if on cue, in the other room, my phone wakes up and starts buzzing loudly as it receives all the texts I missed at graduation. Muttering swearwords under my breath, I wrap my hands around my tea mug and head into my room to check them. It doesn't seem like Christian wasted any time – there's no less than four texts from him, all demanding my attention right now, and when I check, he's left four missed calls since I left the ceremony. No voicemails from him, thank God – just one from Jose, congratulating me on my graduation and apologising for not being there, and one from my mom along much the same lines.

I listen to those voicemails all the way through twice, sitting on the edge of my bed with my tea cooling in one hand, and try to pretend that's all I have to worry about. Unfortunately, Christian isn't about to let me forget that easily. About five minutes later, the phone buzzes again, and I look down at his latest text: **You can't avoid me forever, Miss Steele. We have to talk. I'm coming over.**

Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. I actually jump nearly out of my skin at that, sending hot tea spilling over the overly-expensive silk dress that Kate lent me specially. Double shit. Cursing under my breath, I try to wipe the spill off my skirt and text Christian back at the same time. **You can't. Kate is coming back soon.**

I seriously hope he's not driving, because I haven't even gotten out of the room to get tissues when his reply comes in. **That got your attention. What's the matter, don't you want to see me?** And, a moment later, **Miss Kavanagh only just left. Should be out for a couple more hours.**

Great. So, what, now he's stalking her too? The stain on Kate's dress doesn't make me any less grumpy as I strip off, changing into a more comfortable t-shirt and jeans, and try not to panic. This wasn't meant to happen! It's not like I _meant_ to blow him off at the ceremony, I just got distracted! Maybe I should text him back and tell him I _don't_ want to see him, not right now, that I'm tired and he should just leave me alone.

Unfortunately, that would be a lie. I do want to see him. I want it desperately, to see him alone, away from the crowd and without anyone watching. I just wish he wasn't going to be so fucking angry when he gets here. I want to see him as he really is – that sweet, sad boy I've glimpsed under his mask, not the ruthless businessman whose face he presents to the world. I want _my_ Christian, and, unfortunately, that doesn't look likely to happen.

But I still want him here. Maybe I can even calm him down, make him see that it wasn't meant as an insult or anything. Maybe if I let him spank me... or if I beg him for forgiveness... that's the sort of thing he likes, right?

Groaning, I rescue the last of my tea and curl up on the couch, barefoot and wrapped up in a blanket despite the warm evening, to wait for him. I just don't want him to be angry. Please, don't let him be angry. Let this all be a mistake. Please.

Despite everything, I think I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know, I hear an engine outside the window and feet on the stairs. It sends a sharp jolt up my spine, and I'm on my feet before I know it, trembling with tension. It's probably a few seconds later that the door opens, but it feels like no time at all – and, simultaneously, like a thousand years. Somehow, I manage to smile.

“Christian, you didn't have to...”

“Yes, I did.” Oh, god, he _is_ angry. The sculptured line of his jaw is sharp and taut, and something's pulsing under the skin of his temple. His voice is flat and dead, cutting across mine in a way that brooks no argument. Gooseflesh prickles up my arms and back. “I don't appreciate being ignored, Miss Steele. I'm not accustomed to being treated this way.”

He takes a step towards me, his footsteps barely a whisper on the carpet. Somehow, that makes it worse, like he's some kind of big cat, and I'm his hapless prey. I can't break eye contact, even if I try; unconsciously, I take a half-step backwards and almost fall over as the couch catches me in the back of the knee.

“Christian,” I squeak, my voice trapped behind the lump in my throat. “I didn't mean it like that. I just forgot.”

He's closer to me than ever now, so close I can feel his warmth, and his tone hasn't changed at all. “I'm also not accustomed to being forgotten,” he says, low and dangerous, and I swallow hard. “Perhaps I should give you something to remember me by.”

I swallow again – actually, more of a gulp – and try not to think about what that might mean. Mostly, I'm trying not to think about it because it's all too possible that if I do, I'll think it's hot, and then I'll get distracted, and I'm in enough trouble as it is. I need to keep my wits about me. “It wasn't that,” I whisper, painfully aware of just how close he is, and look up at him from under my eyelashes. “I just... I'm sorry, Christian. I really am.”

And he smiles, and it's like he was never angry at all. The only remnant of his terrifying entrance is the fact that my heart is still thudding in my chest like a blackbird trapped in a greenhouse, and the slight tackiness of my sweat when his fingertips brush along my jaw. “Oh, Anastasia,” he murmurs, raising one eyebrow. “What am I going to do with you?”

I relax a little, leaning into his touch, marvelling at his sudden gentleness. It feels like I should come out with something sharp and snappy, but all I can manage, with difficulty, is “...Um. I don't know?”

Christian laughs, low in his throat, and that feather-light touch is gone from my skin. “Get some glasses,” he says, stepping past me to sit down. “I brought you a bottle of champagne. We should celebrate.”

“Um,” I say again, in a moment of positively Johnsonian wit. “Er. We've packed all the glasses. All we have is teacups.”

For a moment, the thunderclouds seem to gather, and I'm genuinely worried that I've crossed some invisible line. But it's just paranoia. He laughs instead of glowering, shaking his head. “Bollinger from teacups,” he says, marvelling. “You're full of surprises, Miss Steele. They'll do.”

I head back into the kitchen, taking the opportunity to watch him as I take two teacups from the unfamiliarly empty cupboard. He's changed his clothes since the presentation, and is now lounging on my couch – _my couch!_ \- in jeans and a leather jacket. It gives him a very different look, like some sort of bad boy from a 1980s romcom. Weirdly, that look works on him. In fact, the sight of him so louche and casual, with his tousled hair glimmering bronze in the light of my desk lamp, makes my mouth dry. Stupid Christian and his model good looks. Does anything _not_ suit him?

And then there's me, in my faded Qwertee t-shirt and jeans rubbing through at the crotch, looking like I just rolled out of bed on a bad day. Suddenly, I feel very small and very plain indeed. There's a fucking male model sitting on my couch – or might as well be – and I'm not even wearing Kate's dress any more because I ruined it with tea. Bravo, Ana. Fucking brilliant work there.

As if on cue, Christian looks up at me and says “It's a shame you took that dress off, Miss Steele. I was looking forwards to doing that for you.”

That takes me by surprise – so much so that I jump and almost drop the teacups I'm carrying through. I start to stammer an apology, but by then he's on his feet, striding over to me, taking the cups out of my hand and putting them down on the table. He leans in close, the contours of his body brushing against mine, and touches the top of my arm lightly. “Don't look so alarmed, Anastasia,” he purrs, the back of his hand tracing lightly over my cheek, and he tucks a loose lock of hair behind my ear. “You looked beautiful today. God, so beautiful. I could have taken you up on that stage, with everyone watching.”

My breath catches at that, and he laughs, his hand sliding back down the side of my neck and resting against my collarbone. There's a darkness to the edge of his laugh, though, and I blush deeply. Is it possible that he noticed me clench my thighs together at that thought? I don't want to find it hot. I _shouldn't_. But the idea of him holding me down and fucking me in front of the world, of that humiliation and that sheer open not-caring... _god_ , that idea's sexy.

What does it say about me, I wonder desperately, that I find it so hot? I never knew I was so depraved. I never knew being filthy could feel so attractive.

Christian's watching my expression with open amusement. Slowly, his hand slides down my arm, onto my hip; his face is so close to mine that I can feel his breath. “You like that idea, don't you, Anastasia? Me taking you, where everyone can see.” With a suddenness that makes my heart thud, he grabs my ass and squeezes, almost tight enough to hurt. “Fucking you, using you, proving to the world that you're mine... you wouldn't forget me _then_ , would you?” Pulling me tight against him, his erection pressing hard against my belly, he reaches up and twists his other hand into my hair, his voice forceful. “ _Would_ you?”

“No!” I squeak. It's hard to breathe, hard to think. My throat is tight and my heart is racing, and the feeling of his body against mine is making it difficult to focus on anything else.

“No what?”

It takes a moment to figure out what he wants from me, and that moment is one of the longest of my life. I'm sure I'm going to get it wrong, that he'll be angry... worse, that he'll give up on this whole mess, and leave, and not come back. “No... sir?”

His smile is wolfish. “That's right.”

He kisses me then, so hard that I'm sure my lips will bruise, and tugs gently at my lower lip. My earlier reservations forgotten in a rush of pure, animal want, I all but melt against him as he presses rough, violent kisses along the line of my jawbone and bites down on my earlobe, making me gasp.

“I won't fuck you onstage,” he whispers in my ear, his voice deep and urgent, “but I'm not waiting to get you to bed, either. I want you, Anastasia, and I want you now. But first...” And he pulls away, leaving me gasping and wanting. There's that coolness in his voice, that heat in his eyes, that makes me drip with need and at the same time tremble at the thought of disobeying. “You ignored me. You disobeyed me. You know what that means?”

I look down at my hands, swallowing. “...That you're going to punish me? Sir?”

He smiles again, slow and dark. “That's right,” he murmurs, stepping in close to me again, his fingers in my hair as he pulls my head to one side. His tongue traces a warm line up the pulsing line of my throat before he goes on: “Tell me you want it, first. Tell me how sorry you are.”

There's no need to exaggerate or play-act. I'm almost crying – from want, from regret and embarrassment, and from an uncomfortable underlying sense of injustice. “I'm sorry, sir. I'm sorry I forgot. It won't happen again, I promise.” I take a deep, shuddering breath as his fingernails run along my jawline. “Punish me, please. Forgive me.”

“Good girl.” There it is again, that low purr at the edge of his voice that makes me shiver with anticipation and need. I press my legs together, fighting the urge to bite my lip – _he told you not to do that, don't make it worse_ – and look up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. He's smiling like a shark, like he'd be just as happy to rip my throat out as to kiss it, and god _damn_ , that should not be so hot. Almost unconsciously, my tongue darts out to wet my lips. The suspense is killing me.

Leaning in, Christian pushes my hair back with both hands, a surprisingly tender gesture. “Good girl,” he repeats, his long fingers twining against my scalp. “So good, I'll give you a chance. I'm going to fuck you now, Anastasia. Right now, bent over this couch, I'm going to fuck you until I come.”

“Thank you,” I breathe. Only... is it really me? I feel so unlike myself, so removed from the situation. Where is this fervent want coming from? Surely not from mousy, borderline-asexual Ana Steele. “Thank you, sir.”

He laughs, low and cruel. “Don't thank me just yet. There's a catch.” And suddenly, his hands aren't gentle any more. They tighten into fists in my hair, pulling my head back sharply, and he nips hard at the side of my neck, making me whimper in pain and surprise – and, yes, arousal. His mouth is so close to my ear when he continues that his breath tickles the skin, and I can feel his nose press against my temple. “If you come, Miss Steele, I will spank you so hard you won't be able to sit down for a week. I can't help thinking you'll have trouble explaining _that_ to Miss Kavanagh. This is for me, not for you. Do you understand?” When I don't immediately answer, he pulls back harder on my hair, arching my head back until it's almost painful. “ _Do you understand_?”

It's hard to speak, with my throat so constricted and my mind so scattered; despite myself, I try to nod, and of course all that does is pull my hair. “Yes,” I gasp out, at last. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

“Good.” The tension disappears, and my head snaps forwards, my chest heaving as I look up at him. He meets my eyes, his expression cool and assessing, all that heat and anger gone in an instant. “Get your clothes off, and get on your knees. Now.”

I hasten to obey, not even thinking any more. That voice, that steely look, my own mounting arousal... there's no space left any more for thought, or for disobedience. Nor is there any time. If I hesitate, I know it'll only go harder for me. So I strip off as fast as I can, stepping out of my jeans and pulling off my t-shirt. I glance at him for a moment, trying to gauge his reaction, as I stand there in my underwear, but a slight twitch of his eyebrow is enough to get me scrambling to take off my bra and panties, too. Then I'm naked and kneeling in the middle of my own living room, the carpet rough on my knees, the air cold on my sweat-prickled skin. Part of me, sitting calmly outside the situation, observes just how awkward it would be if Kate walked in right now, or if Ray realised he'd left something behind, or anything like that. Part of me suspects that this is all some prank, that there's a film crew outside or something – do I really trust Mr Stalker Grey to _not_ do something like that if he was angry enough? But the biggest part of me, the part of me that's panting and writhing already in the back of my mind, only finds it hotter for those thoughts. The danger... the risk... suddenly, I understand why Christian and people like him are into this.

I hear the whisper of his fly unzipping, and then his erection enters my field of view, and his hands are back in my hair. He doesn't give me any orders, so I glance up at him for confirmation. He gives me that predatory smile again, and pushes my head forwards. Letting him guide me, I slide my mouth over his cock, sucking lightly. I'm finding that, somewhere deep down, there's a version of Ana Steele who really likes to suck cock. It makes me feel powerful, sexual: he might have control over me, but I have control over him, too, and I can make him want me. Sucking and licking, I minister to him as best I can, but he doesn't seem like he has a lot of patience for my games; I've only been at it for a few seconds when I feel his hands tighten in my hair again, and then he's fucking my mouth. His rock-hard erection thuds against the back of my throat, making me gag a little and struggle to breathe. Tears prick at my eyes, but it's not because this is bad, precisely. Just... intense.

I'm gasping for breath when he pulls out, leaving the back of my throat numbly aching, and uses my hair to pull me to my feet. I stumble upright, only to have him push me back down onto the couch, his hands moving hungrily over my breasts, my belly, my thighs. His thumb traces a line along the slit of my pussy, flicking at my clit, and I cry out.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, almost reverentially. “You're so wet. So ready for me.”

I nod, and realise belatedly that I'm biting my lip. Luckily, it seems to amuse rather than anger him. Laughing low in his throat, he parts my lips with one hand – I can taste my own sex on his fingers – and straddles me, leaning in to kiss me hard. Tugging on my bottom lip with his teeth, he reaches down to grab my breasts, pinching my nipples until I groan, then twisting them sharply. I cry out against his mouth, unable to help myself, and my hips buck against him. With lingering tendrils of pain still dancing over the tender skin of my nipples, with his hip pressing against my sensitised clit and crotch, with his teeth clamped down on my lip, it's all I can do not to come right then and there.

Christian seems to sense that, from the smug grin that crosses his face. “You're going to have to learn to keep still,” he chides me mockingly, even as his hand slides down my belly and his fingertips press into me. Oh, this is just not fair. How am I supposed to keep still if he's going to do _this_?

“Please...” The word escapes my lips without going via my brain, born out of sheer need, want, desire. “Please, sir... please...”

“Please what?” He's enjoying this way too much. His grey eyes are dancing with humour, and his smile speaks louder than any words could about just how funny he finds my discomfort. Just to punctuate himself, it seems, he pushes his fingers into me up to the knuckle, stroking somewhere unbelievably sensitive inside me, making me squirm.

I can't answer. What I really want to say – what I can just about string together in my arousal-addled state – is _fuck me or leave me or let me come, just please don't keep doing this. Don't. I'll go_ _insane_ _._ What comes out, in a low croak, is “...fuck me. Please.”

He laughs out loud at that, leaning in to nip my earlobe. “You'd like that, wouldn't you?” Luckily, he doesn't give me a chance to answer – I'm pretty sure anything I could say would be worse than nothing at all. Instead, he kisses me harder than ever, his tongue worming its way between my teeth and winding against mine, and then he pulls away and sits up. His jeans are around his ankles; watching me the whole time, he pulls them up enough to reach into the pocket and pull out a condom packet. Wetting my lips with my tongue, I meet his eyes, hypnotised. My breath comes in short hitches, my skin is slick with sweat, and everything around me – the smell of sweat and sex, the crackle of foil as he opens the packet, the glimmer of the lamplight on his skin – seems to fade into the background. I am all sense, and no sense at all; everything leaps into sharp focus, but all of it is unimportant next to my desire, my _need_ , for satisfaction. And it's all the worse because I know he won't let me have that satisfaction. He said as much, and his eyes told me he meant it.

Straddling me again, he looks down at me. “What do you want?”

“You, sir.” I'm almost sobbing now. “You, inside me, filling me up... please, sir, please...”

I might well go on babbling for a long time, but he cuts me short, pushing into me with a suddenness and force that makes me cry out all over again. His hand covers my mouth, and for a moment that panic starts to rise up in me again, but then he's fucking me, hard and fast and rough, and all worry and thought melts away. I can't breathe, can't think: I can feel the orgasm building up in me like water against a dam, and it takes all I have to try and hold it back. His body is hot and heavy on top of mine, his breathing ragged, his free hand groping blindly against my breasts. I'm begging, pleading for release, and for several moments I don't realise I'm doing so out loud, against the hand on my mouth. My heart thunders against my ribs, my hips jolting instinctively against his, my toes curling in tight and my legs shaking. I come, unable to stop myself, a few seconds before he does. Everything seems to implode into that one tight, sharp moment of pleasure and sensation and completeness, and then it's over, and he's shuddering into his own climax, and I'm lying there under him trying to regain my senses and hoping to God he didn't notice.

When he opens his eyes, they're dark and flat, and his mouth is pressed into a hard line. “Miss Steele,” he says, pronouncing each word with exquisite, deadly care, “What did I tell you?”

Oh, _shit_.

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick update: still going to be slow with new chapters, but hopefully a little less so, as life's punching me in the balls with marginally less rapidity. I am back at university, though, so... time commitments, you know? Thanks to Amatyultare256 again for betaing (I'll stop crediting her after this chapter, but it's not because I'm not grateful), and thanks to all of you who've commented. Sorry I've been bad about responding.  
> Enjoy!

**19**

When Kate comes back, he's long gone. That's something, at least, although it's also an aching, hollow tug in my chest to know he wouldn't stay with me. Not even after that. My thighs and butt feel like they're on fire, even with the baby oil he rubbed into them afterwards, and I've made yet another change of clothes into sweatpants which don't chafe so much on raw, stinging skin.

But he kissed me before he left, and he gave me that boyish smile, and that has to mean something. Right? That's how this works. He punishes me, I take it, he relents, we kiss and make up. BDSM. Easy as pie. And if the price for that – not just him, but that thrill, that charge of risk and humiliation and want – is a bit of pain, then I can pay it. Anastasia Steele pays her dues.

It was worth it, anyway. So what if I didn't like the spanking? I wasn't supposed to – that's what a punishment is. But the bit before, and the bit after... that was a high like I've never had before. Who needs drugs, when I've got Christian?

Now comes the hard bit, though: trying to keep it from Kate. Not just tonight, but for the next few days. I can already feel the bruises rising on my skin, purpled mottles that will probably take the shape of handprints, with my luck. Moving aches enough. Am I really going to be able to pack up the house and drive to Seattle in this state?

 _One step at a time, Ana,_ I remind myself, taking a deep breath as I head out into the main room to meet Kate. She's smiling, eyes aglow, looking beautiful and vibrant and perfect as ever. Once again, I muse on the unfairness of it. First Christian, now her. Am I destined to be surrounded by supermodels in my own apartment?

At least she doesn't stop smiling when she sees me, which means the careful schooling of my expression's probably working. “Ana! Dad bought us champagne! Let's celebrate in style!”

She's already brought out the teacups, freshly washed and dried. _Bollinger from teacups,_ Christian echoes in my mind, _you're full of surprises_. Thanks, mind-boyfriend. Like the parallels between gorgeous, rich, smart Christian and gorgeous, rich, smart Kate weren't awkward enough already, given the conversation. _Well, as long as she doesn't fuck you then bend you over her knee..._

The thought makes me snort in surprised laughter, and I cover my mouth with one hand, letting out an ungraceful snort. Turning, Kate smirks. “Yeah, true. No style from you. I was going to invite you out for drinks after, but unless it's a costume party...”

“Rude.” But I'm infinitely grateful that she misunderstood my amusement. I bite my lip, running a hand back through my hair. “Um. I might have got tea all over your dress.”

“ _Really_ , Ana?” Kate rolls her eyes, pouring out the champagne, her perfect nose wrinkling a little as she struggles not to smile. “I can't leave you alone for five minutes, can I?”

 _Apparently not_ , I think, and have to stifle another laugh. Well, at least laughing's better than the crying I did after he left. But Kate's looking at me oddly now.

“You okay?” she asks, after a moment, as she comes around the kitchen counter to offer me a cup of champagne. She's slipped off her high heels, and her feet are bare. I know that because it's easier to look at her feet than her face right now. If I look her in the eye, she'll know I'm lying before I've said a word. Anyway, I don't have to look to know her expression; the little crease between her eyebrows, the crinkle of her nose, the way her lips purse when she's worried, her voice sounding oddly tight when she says, “Maybe you should sit down.”

“I'm okay.”

“Ana.” She touches my shoulder, ducking down a little to give me a smile. I can smell chocolate and alcohol on her breath, sweet and cloying, and suddenly I want to puke. It's too much. Today is all too much. “Ana, hey. It's okay if you're tired. Long day, right? We don't have to go out. Let's have a quick drink and bitch about how we did all that work for a stupid piece of paper, and then we'll have an early night.” A real grin this time, the infectious sort I can't help but return, and she swaggers over to the couch, flopping down on it with ridiculous affectations left and right. “Livin' the graduate _liiiiife_!”

I laugh, and it's not even feigned. “You're ridiculous.”

“Yep.” Putting her teacup of champagne down on the table, she pats the seat next to her. “C'mon. This better not be because you stained some stupid dress. Ana, it's fine. We'll send it to the dry-cleaners, it'll come right out.”

“You sure?” I don't care about the fucking dress. But if she thinks that's what's upsetting me, good. Let's go with that.

“Sure.” She reaches up to remove her earrings, tossing her hair back over one shoulder. “So come on. Quit worrying about it. Sit down, drink your pricy booze, and smile. It's over. You officially survived college.”

I rack my mind for an excuse not to sit down, and come up empty. Okay. I can do this. I can do this with a smile. Try to distract her with a laugh, move carefully, she's already had a drink or two, it'll be fine. Christian said it'd be fine, and he must have done this a thousand times. Well, not _this_ , but the spanking bit. He knows what he's doing. I just have to play my part.

It hurts, flexing my thighs, and my teacup's a little bit unsteady. Of course, Kate doesn't know I've already had half a bottle of Christian's champagne, and I have no intention of telling her. For now, I just focus on keeping the champagne in the cup, steady myself on the arm of the couch, and lower myself down as casually as I can manage.

And then I realise I winced, and that Kate's smile has gone, and she's staring.

 _Shit_. I feel like screaming. _Shit, shit, shit. I knew I should just have gone to bed_.

“Ana...” she says slowly, then stops herself. Her lips purse again, tighten into a thin, sharp line. I don't like the look of that. I like it even less when she pushes herself abruptly to her feet, leaving her wine on the table, and strides past me.

“Kate?” I twist in my seat, wincing, watching as she stalks across the apartment towards our rooms. No. Towards _my_ room. “Kate, what are you doing? What did I...?”

She turns in the doorway, her face tight, one hand on her hip. Her voice is hard and clipped, all humour gone. “Look me in the eye, Ana. Look me in the eye and tell me you didn't let that son of a bitch come near you again.”

“Kate...” I can't do it. I try, I really do. If I was just scared of her, maybe I could. I mean, for Christian, maybe I could. But it isn't that. When I meet her eyes, it's not the anger in them that strikes me, twisting in my gut and bringing tears to my eyes. It's the concern, and the grief. And the guilt.

I give up on trying to lie then, or maybe I knew from the start I couldn't do it. Instead, I bite down on my lip until it feels like it should be as raw as my ass, and I shake my head. Not in denial, though.

She seems to sag, losing height, losing certainty. “...Okay,” she says quietly, and closes her eyes. “Okay.”

I want to say something to her. I want to tell her I didn't mean it to hurt her, that I didn't want to keep it a secret, that I'm sorry. I want to tell her it's none of her business. I want to ask her to make it all better. But nothing comes out, only a quiet little sob, and before I can gather myself to make it into words, she's gone, vanishing into my room in a swirl of satin and golden hair.

It's agony to get back to my feet, but I manage it, propelled by desperation. When I make it to my door, she's standing by the desk, my phone in her hand. Her eyes are pink, but she's pulled herself back up to her full height, and she looks up when I come in.

“Is this really what you want?” she asks, her voice quiet but steady. “ _You can't avoid me forever_ texts and whispers in your ear at graduation? Someone who spirits you away when you're drunk and stalks your friends and spanks you until you can't sit down, then doesn't even stay to make sure you're alright?”

 _He couldn't stay. You were coming back_. The excuse sounds hollow, even in my own head, and I can't bring myself to say it. Instead, I snatch my phone back, glaring through my tears, and finally find my voice. “This is _my_ room, Kate! That's _my_ phone! You've got no right!”

She winces visibly, swallowing. “Ana.” Her voice shakes a little, now. “Ana, if that's what you want, then I'm not going to stand in your way. But just... just ask yourself, if he's so worth it, why couldn't you just tell me so?”

“Please go.” I hate myself for saying it. I hate myself more for how my voice cracks and quavers on the words. “Please, Kate. Leave me alone. Just... just go.”

“You're the boss.” She doesn't meet my eyes, slipping past me back into the living room. “Uh. There's painkillers and arnica cream in my bedside cabinet. And I'll...” She sighs, turning away, and part of me just wants to rush after her and beg her to stay with me. Can't someone just stay with me? “I'll be just in the living room, if you need me.”

I don't take the cream, and I don't take the painkillers. I lie face-down on the bed and cry, knowing I've ruined everything. I've lost Christian, failed his trust. And worse, I've lost Kate too.

But when, at around three in the morning, I give up on sleep and pad into the living room to put the kettle on, she's still there, lying on the couch in her graduation dress. The teacups are on the table in front of her, empty; the champagne bottles stand untouched on the kitchen side. One knee is curled into her chest, the other three limbs sprawled out over the couch, and her loose curls are covering her face – but she stirs when I come into the kitchen, and I know she wasn't sleeping at all.

“Ana?” she murmurs, sitting up.

I don't answer. But when the kettle boils, I make coffee as well as tea, and pass the cup over to her. She takes it silently, looking up at me. Her lipstick's mostly gone, her eyeliner smudged, and her hair's flat on one side, but she manages to give me a smile and squeeze my hand. That, on its own, is almost enough to set me bawling again.

“Why's there balm in your bedroom?” I ask, quietly. It's not the question I want to ask, but I have to say something to bridge the gap between us.

She laughs a little, although her smile's sad. “Oh, come on, Ana. Like you're the first girl ever to get spanked during sex.”

I blink at her. I know it makes sense, but the pieces still don't want to come together. “Wait. What? _You_?” And then, hot on the heels of that, “So if you do it too... why are you angry?”

“Are you kidding?” She sounds genuinely disbelieving. In the half-light, her eyes scan my face, looking for the lie. Then she shakes her head. “Oh my god. Oh my _god_. What on earth did he tell you?”

If I was lost before, now I might as well be in Erewhon. All I can summon up is “...huh?”

“Okay. Back up.” She puts the coffee mug aside, standing up so we're on a level. “Ana. What did he tell you he was doing?”

“I can't tell you.” That's the one thing I'm sure of. I grope after it like solid ground in a flood. “I signed an NDA.”

“You signed an...” She breaks off mid-sentence, screwing her face up for a moment, and takes a deep breath. “Okay. First things first, sex stuff doesn't come under NDAs, that's not how law works. Second off, pretty sure he already disclosed his sex life when he came into my apartment and raped my flatmate. And third off, Ana, you didn't think it was even a _bit_ weird that a guy made you sign a fucking _NDA_ before you banged? What the _hell_?” But before I can answer, she shakes her head, waving both hands. “No, sorry, it's not... I'm not angry at you. I'm not. Promise. I just... did you sign anything else? Please tell me you didn't sign anything else.”

“I...” The contract. I haven't signed it, but he wants me to. I was going to. After this afternoon, I made up my mind I was going to surprise him with it, next time I saw him. After this afternoon, it seemed like a good idea. At least then I'd know where I stood.

After tonight, that sounds like a terrible idea. And I don't feel like going into it with Kate, not now. “No,” I say, at last. “No, nothing else.”

“Well, that's something.” Kate seems to relax a little. Reaching down, she takes my hand, and meets my eyes with a frankness I can't hope to stand against. “Ana, listen to me, okay? What he's doing to you is shady as fuck. He's following you, he's throwing you straight in at the deep end of kink, he's not staying for aftercare, and... uh-uh.” She raises one finger, silencing me, as I open my mouth to protest. Rather grateful at the excuse not to, I shut up. “And _I_ think,” she continues, after a moment, “ _I_ think you should drop him like a hot potato, slap him in the face, and drag his name through the mud for good measure. _I_ think he's a total creep. But he's not _my_ boyfriend.”

“He's not mine, either,” I venture, cautiously. “He said he's my Dominant.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus.” Kate pinches the bridge of her nose, pulling a face. “You and me need to have a serious talk about how kink works, girlfriend. But, you know... later. Right now, here's the point.” She reaches up, brushing a stray lock of hair out of my eyes, and catches my gaze again. Her green eyes are brilliant with emotion. “Ana, if I tell you what to do right now, I'm going to be as much of an asshole as he is. And it's not my job to tell you who to date. Just... please don't ever, ever feel like you need to go behind my back. Please. I'm not going to pretend I'm happy about it, but if he's really what you want, I can deal with that. And if he's not, I can deal with that, too. Either way, I'm going to be there, and I'm going to support you if you need it, and I want you to promise me you'll come to me if you need any help. Promise me?”

“I promise,” I manage, but the lump in my throat is making it hard to speak. So is the fact that I just want to tackle her into a hug and cling to her, let her comfort me the way she obviously wants to. But if I do that, I'll start crying, and then I won't be able to stop. So I hang back instead, clasping my tea in both hands, smelling her sweat and her perfume. “But Kate, you don't have to...”

“Shh!” Her finger presses against my lips. “Don't you dare, Anastasia Steele. That's what friends are for. I mean, literally, that's _exactly_ what friends are for.” For the first time since this conversation started, she smiles, a wry little curl of the lips that makes her cheek dimple on one side. “Although you better believe you're buying me apology dinners for cutting me out of the loop on this one. I mean, wow. Rude.”

“I was...” I feel bad even for thinking it, when she's being so nice. “I thought you'd be angry that I got back with him. I thought you'd do something to him. You weren't meant to know any of this.”

“Rude, and getting ruder,” Kate comments lightly, but there's something sharp behind her eyes. “Ana, honey, it's not you I'm mad at. When I'm mad at you, you'll know about it.”

Unbidden, my mind flashes back to the dream from earlier, and I blush. There's no way she meant her words to have that effect on me, and that only makes it worse. Clearing my throat, I cover my flustered state by taking a long drink of tea.

Kate looks up at me, a little smile playing around her lips. “Just relax,” she advises, gently. “Hold up, I'll get you something soft to sit on, and you can come sit with me until you feel a bit more ready to sleep.” She stifles a yawn, rather theatrically. “Or until I start snoring.”

It's the latter, in the end. I lie with my head in her lap and her hand resting lightly on my shoulder, listening to her soft snores, and let my eyes close, but sleep feels a thousand miles away. That's okay, though. For the first time in weeks, I feel like I'm home. It's ironic, when we're about to move out, when all our stuff is packed away in boxes and our home should be feeling so transient. But I feel, lying there across Kate's sleeping form, like I have somewhere to come home to.

I don't know what to do. I don't know how I'll figure it out. But I know she'll be there when I do, and that knowledge is like someone's lifted a weight off my chest. _It isn't over_ , I tell myself, shifting up against her and pulling her arm around me. _It isn't over. There's a long road still ahead_. But right now, I can't bring myself to care. Right now, for the first time in what feels like forever, I can let myself rest.

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what! I'm still alive!
> 
> Sorry it's taken me so long to update. I try not to go in for "sorry for the slow update" notes, but a year is a bit much, even for me. Plus, that break made it kind of hard to pick the thread back up, so it seems worth noting. I'm going to try and get to answering reviews over the next couple of days, but no promises.
> 
> Amatyultare256 gets credit for helping me de-Brit this, as before. Thanks muchly.

**20**

I'm woken by an insistent buzzing. I'm still on the couch, but alone: Kate is gone, and I'm covered with one of her blankets, the soft fleece one with the owls on it. Rubbing my eyes and sitting up, I yawn until I feel my jaw click. My ass still aches, but now it's competing with all the rest of my body, which clearly didn't appreciate sleeping on a too-small couch.

“Skip the drinking, stay for the hangover,” I comment aloud, and yawn again, looking around for the source of the buzzing. It takes me a moment to register it as the doorbell. Ugh. Who the hell's at the door at... huh. Eleven-thirty AM, according to the clock on the wall. That can't be right; it feels like about five-thirty, tops.

“Coming!” I call, although I know damn well whoever's at the door can't hear me. I'm upstairs, after all, and there's several walls and doors between us. But, given how tired I am and how irritatingly insistent they are, I think I can be forgiven my stupidity. “Give it _up_ already, I'm _coming_!” And I stumble into my slippers and down the stairs, grabbing my keys as I go.

The doorbell goes quiet for a moment as I leave the apartment, but just when I'm getting my hopes up, it buzzes again. I groan and mutter a generalised curse against all doorbells everywhere, scrubbing my hand over my face as I reach out to open the door. “Yeah?”

“Miss Steele?”

I scream in frustration and slam the door in his face.

About thirty seconds later, when I've stopped hyperventilating, I open the door again. Taylor is still standing on the doorstep, all six-foot-something of him, looking mildly bemused and rather apologetic.

“I'm very sorry, Miss Steele,” he says, in a calm, measured voice, as I sag against the doorframe. “I didn't mean to startle you.”

“ _You're_ sorry?” I laugh, embarrassment overtaking frustration, and tiredness lapping both of them. “ _I'm_ sorry. I just... I mean, I didn't expect...”

“I understand Mr Grey texted you three times before sending me,” Taylor agrees with a little nod. He's cartoonishly professional and aloof, but there's a warmth in his eyes that makes me think maybe he's human after all. “You were asleep, I take it?”

“What gave it away?” I mutter wryly, looking down at my rumpled pyjamas. “Is he angry?”

“I couldn't possibly say,” Taylor replies, straight-faced. Then, with a little twitch that might be a smile, “But I wouldn't take anything he said in his texts too personally. Let's leave it at that.”

I decide, in that moment, that I like him. I even manage to summon up a tired little smile for him, although it feels like trying to bend steel. “Let's leave it at that,” I agree, and sigh. “What does His Lordship want?”

That little maybe-smile flickers at his lips again, but it's brief and, given how carefully-schooled his face is, it might be wishful thinking. “He sent me to apologise for him,” he says, and digs in the pocket of his tailored black suit. “He left before he could give you your graduation gift.”

“Graduation gift?” I feel stupid, parroting him that way, but... well, I could hardly expect it less, after the way we parted last night. “You mean the champagne he brought wasn't it? I assumed...”

“Mr Grey doesn't see that as a gift,” Taylor informs me, deadpan as ever. “More as, shall we say, a conversation opener? No, he had a gift planned, but he found himself... sidetracked, as I understand it.”

Oh, dear. I can feel myself going red, beet-red from head to toe. “I, uh...” I stammer. What must Taylor think of me? First being employed to go and buy me underwear, now following up the errands I _sidetracked_ Christian from? He must think I'm some kind of... well. Maybe it's better not to worry what he thinks of me. I bet Christian doesn't care what people think of him. I know Kate doesn't care what people think of her. But I can't turn it off, that absolute sense of humiliation. How come Taylor is somehow part of our relationship?

At least he's kind enough not to draw attention to my embarrassment. He carries on smoothly, just as if I weren't stuttering and blushing at the whole thing. “He asked me to tell you that, with your permission, he'd like to visit this evening, but in case that isn't possible, he had me bring the gift around now.”

“Oh.” I bite my lip. What's a polite way to say _I don't want it_? If it was Christian himself, maybe I'd be able to throw it back in his face (ha! Keep dreaming, Ana!), but this guy has nothing to do with it. It doesn't seem fair to bite his head off. “Um... what is it?”

Taylor clears his throat, turns, and points. Frowning, I lean out of the doorway to try and see what he's pointing at, but only see the row of cars parked down the street. I don't get it. If it's something big enough for him to point out, surely I should be able to see it, not just a rank of parked...

...oh no. _Oh,_ no.

“You're _kidding_ me,” I manage, my jaw gaping.

“It's an Audi A3,” Taylor says, as if I hadn't spoken. “The red one, there. He drove it out here yesterday, but didn't get around to giving you the keys.” And, when I turn my head, he's holding them out; two black remote keys on a plain metal fob. Oh, god, and the fob has the _Grey Enterprises_ logo stamped on it, if I recognise that font right. Christ. Just when I think I'm done being confused by the guy...

“I don't want it,” I say, louder than I intended, the refusal bypassing my brain to go direct to my mouth. Then I flinch. I shouldn't have raised my voice to Taylor; it isn't his fault his boss is a goddamn psycho. “What I mean is, I've got a car. Wanda. She does just fine. Can you tell Christian--”

Taylor just raises one eyebrow as if to say _Have you ever tried telling Christian anything?_ , and that's enough to stop me short, because of course he's right. With all the trouble I've had saying no to Christian, it just doesn't seem fair to make someone else do it for me.

“...No,” I answer myself, and sigh. “No, I guess you can't.” This is something I need to deal with, I guess. Gird my loins or whatever. I can't pretend I'm enthusiastic about the idea, but... “Tell him he can come here if he wants. Just... If he calls first, he can come.” I sigh again, rubbing my eyes. It's still too early for this, for sure. “And, I... Tell him I'm sorry? For not answering his texts. I really don't want the car, though.”

There's a long moment during which Taylor looks at me with opaque, calculating eyes. Then he shakes his head, and pushes the keys into my hand. “That's between you and Mr Grey, I'm afraid, Miss Steele. For what it's worth,” he adds, sounding apologetic, “it _is_ a very good car. Wonderful cornering.” And he actually smiles, with a warmth that belies his sharp suit and Men-In-Black attitude. Yes, I definitely like this guy. It's a shame I'm only figuring that out after slamming a door in his face and yelling at him, but at least he seems to understand it's not personal.

“I'll think about it.” It's all I can say, really. I answer his smile gratefully, though. “Thanks for being so understanding, Mr... uh, is Taylor your first name or your last?” Well, there's the blush, because God knows I can't go five minutes without embarrassing myself lately. I can't believe I never thought to ask what Taylor's full name is.

He doesn't seem to take it badly, though; he looks amused rather than upset. “My last, Miss Steele,” he answers, and seems to consider for a moment before putting his hand out to shake. “Jason Taylor.”

I'm not really sure what else to do, so I shake his hand, although my grip must be very limp. It feels... stupid, honestly, to be making an introduction after a week or whatever it is. “Mr Taylor, then.” _Smooth, Ana_. “Thanks. I, uh...” I trail off. This feels like a really, _really_ awkward time to leave the conversation, but I'm not sure what else I can say, and I'm hyper-aware that I'm standing around outside in my PJs.

He takes pity on me. “I'll let you get on.” Letting go of my hand, he nods to me. “Good luck this evening, Miss Steele.”

 _Good luck_. What a weird thing to say – or maybe not, considering. I watch him go with a frown, then tun and head back inside. I need a shower, and I need to think. After last night, I can't keep hiding this... thing, whatever it is, from Kate. But if I'm honest, I don't really want her around Christian, either. That feels like a recipe for a fight, and a fight is the last thing I need right now. God, things just keep getting more complicated. Last night... the graduation... Kate...

Plus, now I have an extra car. Go figure.

I'm in the bathroom, prodding at the yellowing bruises on my ass, when I hear the door open. For a moment, my heart stops – it would be just like Christian to invite himself in, wouldn't it? – and then I hear Kate's voice calling my name, and I breathe again. At least, I do for the couple of seconds before I remember I need to explain Taylor's visit. After that, it's less breathing, more groaning.

In the end, she takes it surprisingly well. “You're not _keeping_ the car, right?”

“I... wasn't going to?”

“Good. Assholes like that, once they give you something, they think they've, like... bought your vagina or something.”

I can't help giggling, mortified. “Kate!”

“What? I'm being honest. On the other hand, it _is_ a nice car. Maybe we should take him for all the nice cars and first edition Hardy novels we can before you dump his ass.”

I'm quiet for a moment. Then, hating myself for saying it, hating myself for ruining this easier-than-it-should-be conversation, I almost whisper “Who says I'm going to dump him?”

The silence stretches out a beat too long to be comfortable. Kate's long-lashed green eyes narrow, and her mouth thins. Then, suddenly, she smiles – only a _bit_ tensely – and shrugs. “Right. My bad. You, uh, want me to butt out while he's here?”

“I wasn't going to say _butt out_ ,” I mumble at my feet, pushing my hands as deep into my pockets as they'll go.

“But you _do_ want me to?” She laughs, although there's still that tension in the corners of her eyes, at the back of her voice. “It's okay, Ana. I got it. Just tell him if he skimps on the aftercare again, I'm going to hunt him down and kick him so hard in the balls they'll come out up his throat.”

“ _Jesus_ , Kate!” She's surprised another laugh out of me, though, so I can't be too mad.

She grins, slinging an arm around my shoulder and giving me a quick hug. “There we go. Smiling Ana. I haven't seen enough of her lately.” Then, smacking an overdramatic kiss to my temple, she lets go of me and heads over to the kitchen. “I'm getting a coffee. You want some tea?”

And, somehow, that's it. It seems absurdly easy, like there has to be a catch waiting around the corner. But no – she drops the subject completely, in favour of chatting about our plans for the move: how Ethan's going to come and help us move in to the new place, how she can't wait. Sure, there's still something slightly strained about her – about both of us, to be honest – but strained I can deal with.

Christian texts at 4:51. I'm ashamed to admit I notice the exact time, mostly because I've been checking obsessively every ten minutes or so. His message is characteristically terse and to-the-point: **I'll be there at 6, unless you can't get rid of Miss Kavanagh.**

In the spirit of our newfound openness – though not without a hell of a lot of misgivings - I show the text to Kate. She makes a face like she's just tasted something sour, and hands the phone back. “Are you going to tell him?”

“I... uh.” I know the answer she wants to hear, but I'm not sure I can give it. Honestly, I'm scared. Christian's temper isn't something to be messed with, and I dread to think how angry he'll be if he knows I've breached our confidentiality agreement. _Again_. I worry at my lip, not meeting her eyes.

“Ana...” She sounds weary, but not unsympathetic. That's something. “You know you're going to have to tell him sooner or later, right?”

“I know.” I sigh, looking down at the text. “Yeah. I should. I know.”

Her arm comes around me again, and she takes a deep breath. “If you don't think you can,” she says quietly, “then don't. But when you _do_ feel up to it, you know I'll back you up, right? I'll tell him I bullied you into it. I'll tell him I stole your phone and went through it. Whatever. You're not taking the fall for this, Ana.”

I turn, putting my arms around her and burying my face against her shoulder. She smells... safe. Familiar. The expensive Chanel perfume she uses tends to wind up brushing off on her things around the apartment, so I guess it's no wonder that she kind of smells like home. “You're my best friend,” I say, into her shirt. “God, I'm glad you're here, Kate. Seriously.”

She hugs me close. “Whatever you need, Ana. Any time.” Then, without pulling away, “Do you want me around, or should I butt all the way out and go for a drink or something?”

I have to think about that. I can't deny that the thought of having her around is comforting. I hate the thought that Christian scares me, but he _does_ , on some level. It would be nice to know that if I yell, she'll come running. On the other hand – and it makes me blush just to think of it – if Christian's animal magnetism gets the better of me again, the last thing I want is for Kate to be sitting in the next room listening. Worrying at my lip, I consider for a long moment. At last, I say carefully, “I think... I think it's best if you go?” I flinch a little as I say it, not wanting to hurt her feelings.

She pulls away, nodding, and puts her hands on my shoulders. “Okay,” she says, and I can hear in her voice that she's considering, too. It's weirdly reassuring to know I'm not the only one feeling a little out of my depth. “Okay. I'll tell you what. I'll text you at seven, okay? I'll invite you to come join me at the bar. That way, you've got a get-out clause if you need it. And you can call me whenever, and I'll drop everything and get my perfectly-round ass back over here at the speed of sound. How's that?”

“I think you're overstating the roundness of your ass.” It feels good to smile. I clasp her arms in return, feeling grateful for her as I've never felt grateful for anything. “That sounds good, Kate. Thanks. What time are you going to be back?”

“What time d'you _want_ me back?” She shrugs. “Nine? Ten? Unless you come out with me, in which case I can go all night, baby.”

I laugh, and in the end, we agree on ten o'clock. That gives me four hours with Christian, if I need it. If I want it. I hate to admit it, but I _do_ want it, and more. For all the pain and the upset it caused me, yesterday was _hot_. There's a part of me – a deep-seated, shameful, but significant part – that really enjoyed being taken that way, being used and thrown aside. It makes me feel dirty to realise that, but it's true. No matter what Kate thinks of how he's treating me – even if she's _right_ – I can't shake the want.

He's prompt, of course. This is Christian we're talking about. It's 5:59 when the doorbell rings, and Kate's been gone for about half an hour. I've changed into something slightly more flattering, remembering how shabby I felt in a t-shirt and old jeans. It isn't much, and it definitely isn't meant to be provocative – we need to have a serious conversation, really we do, and I don't want us to get... _sidetracked_ again – but at least I feel a little less frumpy. That's a relief, because when I open the door for him, he's standing there looking even more jawdroppingly beautiful than usual, his bronze hair tousled and his linen shirt rolled up to the elbows, and I don't know what I'd do if I looked like a hobo again.

As it is, my mouth goes dry. I can't help it. Will he ever stop having that effect on me? I manage a little smile, stepping aside to let him in. For a moment, he lingers in my space, so close I can feel his warmth, and he stands there looking down at me with those deep grey eyes. Then the moment passes, and he reaches down to take my hand, drawing me with him as though this were his apartment, not mine.

“I'm so glad we could meet, Anastasia,” he says warmly. How could I have been afraid of him? How, when warmth and good humour radiate off him? Even with my ass still aching, it's hard to reconcile this Christian with the anger he showed last night. “I was worried you wouldn't be able to get rid of Miss Kavanagh.”

The mention of Kate helps me to pull myself together a little. Kate, who's sitting in a bar down the street and probably worrying about me. Kate, who seems to see what's scary about him, even when he's smiling and looking pure as the driven snow. Maybe she's infected me with her worry, or maybe she's right. How do I know? But either way, it helps me to remember my earlier irritation with him. Maybe I'm channelling her a little when I look up at him and demand, “What's up with this car thing? I told you, Christian, I don't want any big, extravagant gifts.”

The look he gives me quashes that spark of courage. It's not an angry look, not really – it's more just a profoundly _disappointed_ look, like I'm a child who's failed to grasp a very simple concept. “I want to give you things,” he says, slowly and pointedly. “And it really isn't extravagant. I am very, very wealthy, Anastasia. A car is nothing, really.”

“It's something to _me_.” But in a moment, I'm reduced from strong, powerful woman to a bashful little girl, shamefaced and petulant-sounding.

“Oh, Anastasia.” He draws me close, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “You'll have to get used to my buying you things, if you want this – us – to work.” And now _he_ sounds uncertain, frightened, and it drives a spike through to my heart, because I never meant to upset him. I never want him to feel that way. How could I want _anyone_ to feel that way?

I bite my lip without thinking, looking up at him. There's something lost in his expression, a distance in his eyes. I don't want to back down, but I don't want to make this worse, either. And, really, I _am_ being pretty ungrateful, when you think about it. I mean, shouldn't I be happy that he wants to spend so much on me, that he wants to make me happy?

Before I can say anything, though, he pulls me in tighter, and his voice changes, takes on that dark edge that makes my spine tingle. “You're biting your lip again, Miss Steele.”

Well, that solves that problem, I guess. I mean, now I have _another_ problem – namely the urge to jump on him and make out with him for half an hour – but at least he's not looking so worried any more. I bat my eyelashes at him, grateful for the distraction. “Am I?” I say innocently. “I didn't notice.”

He lets out a little groan, sounding amused as much anything, and shakes his head. “You are incorrigible, Miss Steele.”

Again, I bat my eyelashes. “We aim to please, Mr Grey.”

“Oh, and you do.” He draws me close, leaning in so that his mouth is tantalisingly close to mine. I can feel his breath on my skin, smell mint and cardamom on his breath. Without even thinking, I stretch up to meet him, but he moves away, smirking as he lets go of me. Dammit, he knows _exactly_ what he's doing to me! “Do you have any coffee? I'm parched.”

I'm flushed and flustered, pressing my thighs together in a vain attempt to keep myself under control, but I manage to stammer, “I... uh, yes. Yes, just a moment.”

He follows me into the kitchenette, moving in long, silent strides, like a cat stalking its prey. As I fill the coffee-maker and try to force myself to act normal, he persists in making it difficult, always there, just a little too close for comfort. He doesn't touch me, though – at least, not until I step back and wait for the machine to work, when all of a sudden his arms are encircling me from behind, and he nuzzles against my neck.

“You're making this really difficult,” I scold him. It's meant to sound light and joking, but I'm too high-strung and too turned-on for that to work out just at the moment.

He raises his eyebrows, amused. “Am I, now?” His smirk is evident in his voice. “Should I stop?”

 _Should I stop_? Now there's a question – one that I've been asking myself more or less constantly since Christian Grey came into my life. _Should he stop? Should_ this _stop?_ The sensible, careful part of me says yes. Absolutely, unequivocally, yes. This is a terrible idea, and I should know that by now. If there's one thing yesterday should have taught me, it's that this is always, always going to end in tears for me.

But the sensible, careful part of me is too calm and too measured to stand up to even a moment of wild, unfettered lust. _If there's one thing yesterday taught you_ , the wild part of me whispers seductively, _it's that it's inevitable. You know it is. You know you want it to be_.

I do. I want to give up on sense and care, give in to the wild, sensual part of me.

Maybe it is inevitable. Maybe it isn't. Either way, all I know is that before the coffee's done, I'm pushed up against the doorway with his mouth on mine. And when my phone goes off later, Kate's sensible, thoughtful exit strategy – when that happens, I don't even hear it. I wouldn't care if I did.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I know it's been over a year now since I updated, and I'm really sorry for that. I spent a lot of this year (the last year of my degree) in a state of mild burnout, and I haven't really written anything substantial in a while. I'm trying to get back into the groove now. That said, given the long hiatus, I felt really awkward asking for beta-reading, so this is unedited for now.
> 
> Thanks for all your comments and kudos while I've been gone! I'm going to try and respond to as many as possible, but I just want you to know I appreciate them generally, and some of them were really helpful. I think that's about everything. On with the chapter!

**2** **1**

I’m lying in my bed, naked and blissful, with Christian’s warm arms around me. I feel like I’m drifting, my whole body at once heavy and light as air, like I could push off and float if I wanted to, away from worry and stress and doubts about my own sanity, like we’re in our own bubble outside space and time.

...Time. Shit. I roll over, tilting my chin up to look at him. “What time is it?”

He sighs, looking at his watch. “Half past eight. Why?”

Wow. That means there’s still an hour and a half before Kate gets back. Given how much fun we had in the first couple of hours, that’s a very tantalising thought. I smile, settling back against his chest, his crisp white shirt crumpling against my cheek, the smell of sweat and sex almost drowning out that clean laundry smell. “No reason,” I say, after a moment, and raise one hand to trace over his chest, meaning to toy with the buttons, maybe drop a subtle hint about where we can go from here.

His hand closes around my wrist, tight enough to be uncomfortable, and I hear him draw a sharp, hissing breath. For a moment, he’s taut, almost thrumming with tension, and then he softens the blow by raising my hand to his mouth and brushing a kiss against my knuckles. Still, he pulls away, shifting so he’s over me, my wrist still in his hand when he shakes his head.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, and kisses me lightly before letting go.

I sigh, looking up at him. My anger’s still there, worrying faintly at the edge of my thoughts, but what I feel most of all right now is pity – pity and concern. I remember that first night I spent with him – the music, the shape of him near the piano, that melancholy softness to his face when he slept – and I have to wonder just what happened, to make him so sad. So afraid.

“Why don’t you like to be touched?” I don’t want to sound petulant, but there’s a bit of me that _feels_ pretty petulant, so it probably comes off that way anyway.

“Because I’m fifty shades of fucked-up, Anastasia.” He looks away when I try to meet his eyes, although he doesn’t pull back. “I had a very tough introduction to life. I don’t want to burden you with the details. Just... don’t.”

Jesus Christ. How’s anyone meant to be pissed off at you when you’re being that heart-meltingly tragic, Christian? I bite my lip, half-raising my hand to touch his cheek, before I realise how totally counterproductive that would be and let my arm drop back to my side. “I won’t,” I whisper, and this time, he lets our eyes meet. I hope he can see the concern and the sincerity in mine, the way I can see that shadowed grief in his.

He smiles faintly, rubbing his nose against mine, and sits up. “I’m glad you’re in a better mood than yesterday, Anastasia. I don’t like being angry at you.”

“I don’t like it either,” I say honestly. I feel like I ought to sit up, but instead I stay right where I am, pulling the corner of the blanket over myself. “It scares me.”

“Oh, Miss Steele.” Christian’s fingertip traces over my forehead, brushing aside a stray lock of hair. “You know I would never hurt you, not really. I don’t want to hurt you. I just want you to be mine.”

_I just want you to be mine!_ What, did he crib that straight out of Mills & Boone? The embarrassing thing is, schlocky and cheesy though it is, it works. It’s romantic, it’s sweet, and it’s also remarkably sexy. I’m grinning like an idiot, I must be – probably red-faced, as well. But he’s not done.

“I get what I want. You should know that.” The almost-threat of those words is softened by his smile, kind and boyish, his grey eyes soft. The shadow’s lifted; he’s playful again, his hand tracing down the side of my neck. “And you _are_ mine, you know. You’ve had five orgasms, and all of them belong to me.”

Holy shit. He’s been keeping count? But, of course, he’s missing one. I allow myself a little smirk, which turns out to be a bad idea, because all of a sudden he’s scrutinising me with a new intensity.

“Do you have something you want to tell me, Miss Steele?”

I swallow, clearing my throat. My face is probably the colour of a beet right now. “I had... um, I had a dream the other night.”

“Oh?” He glares at me.

Shit, crap, and while I’m at it, damn. I probably shouldn’t have said anything about that. Ever. I should just take that to my grave. Now he’s looking at me expectantly, clearly wanting to know more, and I feel like crawling under the covers to die of embarrassment in peace.

“I came in my sleep.” I cover my face with my hand, not wanting to see his reaction. Then, because curiosity doesn’t die down that easily, I peek between my fingers.

Christian doesn’t look angry. What he does look, which is almost worse, is amused. “In your sleep?”

“It woke me up.” If I blush any more, I’m going to start glowing red. This is the _worst_.

“I’m sure it did. What were you dreaming about?”

Oh. I take it all back. _This_ is the worst.

I wet my lips, trying not to think about what I was dreaming of when I actually came. I can still save this from being a worse disaster. “About you.” Well, it’s not technically a lie. He _was_ in the dream, after all. That’s not lying, it’s just... economising with the truth. And if it’s not a lie, he can’t punish me for it, right? Except that I’m absolutely sure that he can see dishonesty written all over my face, and he’s about to throw another shitfit at me. Wincing in anticipation, I look up at him.

“What was I doing?” If he’s angry, he’s hiding it well. His eyes dance with good humour.

“Uh...” Oh, crap. Stop asking awkward questions, Christian! There’s no nice way to phrase _we were having sexy fun and then you turned into my unfairly hot flatmate and it turned me on so much I wanted to cry_. Plus, I really don’t want to have to think about that dream too long or too hard, or I’m going to start questioning some things. Again. Now is really not the time for wondering if I’m a secret lesbian dream-cheater. The time for that is approximately never, in fairness, but now’s even _more_ not the time than usual.

“Anastasia, what was I doing? I won’t ask you again.” Oh, crap. There goes the good humour, here comes angry Christian, voice flattening, threat clearly implicit.

I clear my throat, worrying my lip, and try to think of something about that dream that _wasn’t_ Kate. “...You had a riding crop!” Again, not a lie, just to be clear. I’m _technically_ being completely honest.

“Really?”

“Yes.” Oh, good. I think he’s mistaking ‘I had a sex dream about Kate’ embarrassment for ‘I’m an innocent virgin finding out about kinky stuff’ embarrassment. Not that there’s not a pretty strong seam of that kind of embarrassment, too...

“There’s hope for you yet,” he murmurs. “I have several riding crops.”

My smile feels a little forced, but only a little. Never mind the weird dream, the important thing is that not only is he not angry, he’s all but promising to live the sexy part of it out with me. It’s a hot thought, makes me want to tug off the blankets and pull him back down with me right away.

Unfortunately, he seems to have different ideas, because before I can reach up for him, he’s on his feet, pulling on his boxers and reaching for the discarded condom. “When’s your period due?”

Jesus, talk about mood whiplash! I blink at him, pushing myself up on my elbows. “Huh?”

“I hate wearing these things.” He holds up the full condom accusingly, then puts it down on the nightstand, reaching for his jeans. “Well?”

“Um...” I wrinkle my nose, trying to think. “Next week?”

“You need to sort out some contraception.” He sighs, buttoning his fly. “Sign the contract, Anastasia. The sooner we can get that out of the way, the sooner we can sort out all the nitty-gritty and really play.”

“Play?” I’m confused. Weren’t we already playing? Wasn’t that what this whole thing’s about?

“I’d like to do a scene with you. But I won’t until you’ve signed, so I know you’re ready.”

“Oh.” I blink, nonplussed. Wasn’t yesterday a scene? Or the tying-me-to-the-bed thing? Then again, that didn’t end too well for either of us, so maybe he’s got a point, wanting to be sure I’m ready. “So I could stretch this out, if I don’t sign?”

He stares at me intensely, and I’m suddenly worried that I’ve pissed him off again – but then the corners of his mouth start twitching, and the severity melts away, leaving only that playful boyishness. “Well, I suppose you could, but I may crack under the strain.”

“Crack? How?”

“Could get really ugly.”

I shouldn’t be smiling at this. But he’s clearly joking, and his smile’s infectious. “Ugly how?”

“Oh you know, explosions, car chases, kidnapping, incarceration.”

“You’d kidnap me?”

“Oh yes,” he grins.

“Hold me against my will?” _That’s terrifying_ , says the sane part of me. _That’s hot_ , says a much deeper part of me, at exactly the same time. It sounds like the plot of one of those bodice-ripper novels my mom likes so much. I’m picturing myself shackled in a dungeon somewhere, and I know that’s not what he means, but I also know that it sends a jolt of excitement through me.

“Oh yes,” he nods. “And then we’re talking TPE 24/7.”

“You’ve lost me,” I breathe. Don’t ruin the mood with your weird jargon, Christian. I’m busy enjoying an incredibly ill-advised fantasy here.

“Total Power Exchange – round the clock.” His excitement is palpable. I guess I forgot for a moment that jargon can be a turn-on too, if you know what it means. And... well, I don’t know, but I can make a good guess. “So you don’t have a choice.”

I gulp. I mean, the scary thing is that he’s sort of right. That kind of thing might be a sexy fantasy, but the trouble is, I’m not sure I trust it to stay a fantasy if I piss him off enough. And there’s not much I could do to stop him if he tried, frankly.

“I’ll think about it. I’m still... I guess I’m a bit confused.” That’s the understatement of the century. “By this. All of this. By you.”

Wrong answer. The corners of his mouth turn down again, and he goes to retrieve his socks. “Think quickly,” he advises.

“You’re not leaving already?” _But we’ve still got an hour! We could do so much in an hour!_

There’s a spark of humour in his eyes, but there’s nothing boyish or innocent about it this time. “I think I ought to give you some time to... think.”

“Don’t go!” It bursts out of me in a rush, bypassing my brain entirely. “Please, Christian.”

He doesn’t answer. He’s already through the door, in the living room, reaching for his shoes. Cursing under my breath, I scramble out of bed, my bruised ass aching and the air cool on my bare skin, and hurry after him. “Christian!”

“I’ll send you the revised contract,” he says over his shoulder. “You can _think_ about it better then.”

“I’ll sign it.” I know it’s a terrible thing to say, and I don’t care. He doesn’t get to leave me again, like he did last night, like he always goddamn does. I’m breathing heavily, gasping around the lump in my throat. “I’ll sign it, Christian. Just... don’t go. Please.”

Christian straightens up, turning back to me, and takes a deep breath. That hunted look’s back in his eyes, a look like he didn’t expect this, doesn’t know how to respond to it. “I think you need to rest,” he tells me quietly, crossing the room to me, and presses a gentle kiss to my forehead. “You don’t know what you’re saying, Anastasia. And I don’t want to force you into anything.”

“But-!”

He puts a finger to my lips, shaking his head. “But nothing. I want you to _want_ this, Anastasia. I’ll send you the contract tomorrow. Get some sleep.” There’s a hint of that playfulness again, that glint in his eyes and the lopsided tug of a smile. “You must be tired after all that exercise.”

And then, after everything, he leaves. Just leaves, and I’m left standing naked and baffled in the middle of my living room, staring after him as the door clicks shut. But despite the stabbing sense of betrayal, I find myself smiling a little, hugging myself briefly before I turn to head back into my room, to get dressed and text Kate. It’s that last conversation that does it. Get some rest. Want you to want this. Won’t force you into anything.

Biting my lip, I close the bedroom door behind me and let out a shaky little laugh, giddy with relief.

_He does care_. _He really does._


End file.
